Blood of the Septim
by ShiningInTheMoonlight
Summary: Alternate Universe/Ending. The closing days of the Third Era marked Martin Septim's rule, and it promises war, treachery and loss. Would peace be established before the flames of war completely engulf Tamriel, or would it fall apart? Or would her Emperor be the one to fall before Tamriel, should his duty and burdens be the end of him? Currently T, will probably go up to M.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: Never really thought I'd rewrite this fail-of-a-fanfiction again. After all, we _did_ have an updated None of Your Business (once) and then the monstrosity which is Blood of the Septim Version One.

So why revise it? Well... when I first wrote the chapters for Blood of the Septim, it just seemed _and_ felt like it was so different than None of Your Business. So different that I thought it needed to be a stand-alone and it needed to be brought to justice, a.k.a a hopefully better, more correct and less-horrible version. Which is this. I'd love to read what you think about it and if there are any mistakes, please tell me so I could fix it. I hope you enjoy this story!

**-~O~-**

Prologue: Grim News

**-~O~-**

"We have a traitor in our midst," the Bosmer said, his face betraying no emotions kept under his face. Yet his actions signify the unease that spread through his mind; he fidgeted with his hands, put them on the table in front of him, and tapped his fingers on the wooden surface. It was only because of the constant reminder that the four Speakers in front of him were watching his every move that he stopped, and took the part of the staunch Listener to be the perfect epitome of calmness.

His Speakers looked at him with different reactions. Attentive, surprised, sad, indifferent. All those emotions that competed to be the most seen by the Listener, to be trusted, to be eliminated of the threat of suspicion. But those expressions before him? It won't convince him. Ungolim was Listener for a reason. His voice was the Night Mother's, and his orders were from the Unholy Matron Herself and the Dread Father, Sithis. And nothing was hidden from Them.

The Surprised Speaker spoke first. "Who could it be, dear Listener?" Arquen asked, in her rich Altmer voice. Her brows were knitted together in concern, and her mouth twisted in a frown. Ungolim let the silence that followed grow before finally looking up from staring at the battered table so common to be seen in Bravil.

"We don't know. Yet," he answered in what he hoped was a stern tone. He could not show a single sign of distress. _Not in front of them,_ he thought, before continuing, "But the Night Mother has spoken, and order me to invoke a rite that regretfully exists."

It took a moment for the Speakers to understand. The Sad Speaker voiced his thoughts, "The Purification? Surely this is madness. The Night Mother wouldn't—"

"But she did!" Ungolim snapped at Mathieu Bellamont, therefore breaking his structure of complete control over his emotions. Mathieu more or less winced and kept his silence. Ungolim sighed before looking down at the table again. It was depressing enough to know that there was a traitor in the Dark Brotherhood, but to kill the rest of the family, even when they are innocent...

Well, innocent would not describe their strange family correctly. But they all the same didn't deserve the fate of being killed just for the sake of ridding one traitor. Or traitors, now that Ungolim thought of it. The Night Mother said that there was only one traitor behind the recent killings of the Dark Brotherhood's members, but that didn't mean that he was working alone...

Which did not make matters any better.

His reverie was cut off when finally the silent, indifferent Lucien Lachance spoke, "I suggest starting with my Sanctuary first; I have a devoted member that will no doubt see to this task as soon as possible." His tone was casual, his hands on his sides; he was the epitome of calmness that Ungolim failed to portray. "I will inform her and raise her to the rank of my Silencer only with your agreement, Listener."

Ungolim had glanced only once at the Speaker, and already a shiver went up his spine. Lucien only stood there, watching him, waiting patiently for his response. He was a funny one; strange, quiet, and unnerving. Qualities of an assassin… and a traitor.

He'd gone as far as mad to even mistrust his Speakers. But it was a necessity that Ungolim must take. There was no telling who could be plotting to finally kill him in the end. Was it the one acting to be surprised, namely Arquen? Was she just trying to throw the threat away?

Another silence grew amongst the small council of the Black Hand. Ungolim felt the dread that was shared by the other Speakers, and could not even say anything if it weren't for Arquen who broke the silence. "But there would be no use in the Purification, anyways, Listener, since the traitor would kill us all in the end," she pointed out, her hands restless and fidgeting with the hilt of her blade.

"No, there wouldn't be. But you forget that I do not speak for my importance; I speak because the Night Mother tells me so, and it is Sithis' willing. Who am I to object?" he looked up again at the four faces staring at him. "Who are we to question the will of our Dread Father?"

The Attentive Speaker finally asked, "And what if the traitor is not a traitor of the brotherhood, but some assassin of another group competing with us? There was a band of assassins from Morrowind, the Morag Tong they call themselves. They're bitter rivals with the Dark Brotherhood, are they not?"

Banus Alor was a Dunmer from Morrowind, so it was clear that he knew what he was speaking of. Ungolim himself was not a stranger to the Morag Tong, but it was unlikely that they would bother to murder Brotherhood members whose corpses were all found in Cyrodiil, and no one could possibly find a Dark Brotherhood member even if they were staring at that person. The offender was most definitely a traitor from their own family. It could not have been the Morag Tong. They were the last of Ungolim's concern.

Lachance appeared to have the same chain of thoughts as the Listener did. As if he read his mind. "Our members were murdered in such ways and times that seemed impossible if this _traitor_ is not from the Brotherhood itself, a family member that knows when and where they would be." He paused to watch the Dunmer tighten his lip in thought, considering the explanation, before continuing, "And a stalker from outside would have raised our suspicions already. I say this is a necessary action to take. The Night Mother Herself has told us to do the Rite of Purification. If She Herself has spoken of such things, then imagine: could you possibly deny something the Unholy Matron says?"

For a few moments, Ungolim was too astonished at Lucien's explanation that he did not notice that Arquen and Mathieu stared at their Listener intently. Ungolim cleared his throat and tried to keep his composure, "What Lachance said was correct. The Night Mother told me, the Listener, that the traitor is our own family member, but did not tell who."

"That sounds queer," Banus chirped, completely ignoring the decorum required when speaking about the Night Mother, "I don't think the Night Mother would hide us something important, do you?"

Ungolim scowled. "What She tells us is not for us to judge, but to follow willingly."

The Dunmer once again tightened his lip as his argument died down. The two remaining Speakers, Arquen and Mathieu, whispered a few words to each other before finally looking back at Ungolim. Lachance was still as always.

Another silence. Another reminder that silence is what the Dark Brotherhood will be when the Purification is through; until they rebuild the family they lost. In his mind, Ungolim's composure broke as he considered what Banus said. _Why not tell us who it is, Mother? To save the lives of Your children?_

He closed his eyes and turned away from the faces watching him, to hide from them the true face he wore. The sorrow of soon losing so many members. The regret that this must be done. The shame that he once doubted the Night Mother's words. "As to what you suggested, Lachance, I give you my leave to appoint yourself a Silencer you deem worthy, and to start the Purification in the Cheydinhal sanctuary."

"As you say, Listener," Lachance responded coolly.

Ungolim turned his head around to regard the rest of the Speakers, his hand holding each other on the small of his back, "Your task shall be the same. I want Mathieu to pen a letter to the other Speakers who could not arrive today, and should there be any more murders of our members... then Sithis guide us."

"Then let us hope this matter would end soon," Mathieu nodded, though he frowned. _He looked as if he wanted to say something_, Ungolim thought.

"Let us _all_ hope this matter would end soon," Ungolim echoed, "and with that, I announce the end of this meeting."

As the Speakers of the Black Hand left wordlessly, Ungolim was looking out the muck tinted window that showed him the quiet night outside. Only a few torches lit the road, and after a time just staring at the ground, Ungolim grabbed the cloak that was laid carelessly on a chair by his right, and went outside.

The Speakers must have left hurriedly, because they were not outside when Ungolim appeared through the door. He took a torch from one of the sconces by the walls, and by memory took the cold walk to his destination. It was no time that he stopped in front of the Lucky Old Lady, so beautiful in her frozen state, and yet so dark and horrifying. He glanced once at the figure depicting Her children before he looked up, not wanting to think that it was exactly what the Night Mother wanted all along; for all her children to be killed and join Her and Sithis in the Void.

Ungolim just stared at the face of the Night Mother, not saying a word, not even praying to her. Still, a whisper so familiar to him sounded from the statue, so quiet that even his Bosmer ears barely heard it. "_Things will unravel when they must, my child. What has been done cannot be undone_."

**-~O~-**

Alright, so a few things I think should be said:

One, I will update _at least_ once a week; the fastest I could manage is once every three days. I have another chapter already done, but haven't spell-checked it that much, so it'll be up tomorrow or so.

Two, this story is not beta'd, but I do have the time to correct most mistakes, so as I have said, please tell me if there are any more mistakes that I should correct.

Three, some things from Blood of the Septim might be altered slightly or not there at all. I copied a few paragraphs from the original in this one because it made the cut, which is an example that the prologue is altered a bit, but still has a few stuff from the original.

Please review and tell me what you think!


	2. The Sisters

Author's Note: Here is Chapter 1, longer than the first one (just because I conjoined the 'original' next chapters with this one) and even though the things that happen in this chapter aren't very different than the original, the characters may be more... eh, believable isn't the right word. Altered, different, changed. Just character-wise.

I _definitely_ improvised the dialogue with NPCs. It's too bad I don't have Oblivion with me. Huff.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 1: The Sisters

**-~O~-**

_Silent as a shadow,_ she took an arrow noiselessly from the quiver she had put on this morning. _Keen as an eagle's eye,_ she put the arrow upon the string of the bow, her favourite elm one that wasn't too heavy nor too light, and no taller than she was. _Quick as lightning_.

The arrow pierced through the wind, but Linne could not say the same about the woman who dodged the attack. Linne saw her smile, heard her chuckle, and disappointed with her archery skills, Linne went over to the woman.

"Your sneaking is admirable, but even a lowly thief could do better," Niera said, approaching Linne's hideout all the same. Her sister's eyes were slightly covered by the leather hood she was wearing, which made Linne wonder just _how_ her sister could have spotted the arrow in the first place. Her sneaking wasn't _that_ horrible, was it?

Linne huffed and rolled her eyes, which only encouraged her sister's teasing, "You'll be better, maybe in two years. Then probably the Night Mother would accept you."

_Forget bows and arrows_, Linne hit her sister's shoulder in a jesting manner. "I still can't understand why I'm not allowed to live with you in the Sanctuary. I know _everything_ there is to know about the Dark Brotherhood, and I'm not even a member."

"Hush," Niera silenced her sister. Linne looked around to find nobody on the road to home, to Cheydinhal, but did not speak any more about the secret organisation. "You don't know everything about it yet, little sister. In time you will, but until then, you will keep that mouth of yours closed when anybody asks about us and the Dark Brotherhood," her sister spoke, barely a whisper, but Linne heard everything she needed to be told. Sometimes, Niera would just _love_ to berate her and remind her how Linne was only a girl barely grown, thirteen and not worthy of the title assassin.

Sometimes, Linne would like to smack Niera's head. She's a member of the Dark Brotherhood, so why can't Linne, her own sister, be a member too? It was unfair. But remembering that perhaps Niera was correct, and Linne wasn't exactly _ready_ to kill anyone... she bit her lip. "I will."

"Good," her sister said, looking deep into her eyes. Linne felt a shiver run down her back, as she always had whenever Niera stared at her with those deep blue eyes. It was as if she could look into her soul, expose every secrets and lies that Linne had. But Niera smiled, put a hand on her sister's shoulder, and Linne knew she found nothing she wanted to know inside. "I'm proud of you, sister, don't you forget that. But some things come first before family."

"Father used to say nothing comes before family."

"But he isn't here, is he?" asked Niera, her smile vanishing in an instant. _I shouldn't have said that._ "He's in the Void with Sithis, an honour not many deserves. And we will both get that honour when we die, Linne."

"Not before I'm in the Brotherhood, though." Linne crossed her arms, daring her courage and her sister to reply. Niera chuckled and squinted up to the sky while Linne looked down to the ground, her bravery diminishing with every second the stillness continued.

In what felt like centuries, Niera answered finally, "You do not need to be in the Dark Brotherhood to earn such a blessing, Linne. Anybody who serves Sithis in their own ways is a child of the Dread Father and the Night Mother." Not even waiting for Linne's response to _that_, Niera walked away to continue her journey towards Cheydinhal.

Linne had no choice but to follow. She took the arrow that missed her sister—by inches— from the ground and began the quiet walk to the only home she remembered.

"By the way," her sister started once Linne was beside her, "what exactly was your intention, shooting people off from a bush?"

"Oh, trust me, it was not to kill anyone," Linne tried, but Niera still frowned. _Why did I even do that in the first place?_ "I was just practicing, and then you sort of... went in the way."

"Went in the way? It certainly doesn't seem like it."

Linne looked down and waited for the usual scolding, her face flushed with embarrassment. What exactly _was_ she thinking when she thought that shooting arrows to random by-passers was a good idea? Even when technically, she didn't intend to shoot the by-passers, just the trees nearby them just to scare them off.

Maybe she liked the trouble.

Niera sighed as if she read her mind, "Was it one of your foolish decisions where you don't even think it through?"

Linne winced at the tone her sister used, so doing the only reasonable thing she could, Linne started to explain slowly, "I was just practicing my archery, Niera, I didn't intend to _kill_ anybody—"

"Yes, practicing archery by hiding behind a bush and shooting in the direction of the road," her sister interrupted, stopping completely. Linne turned to look at Niera, scowling underneath her shrouded hood, and looked away at the sight of her. "That's what you lack all this time, so that the Night Mother never considered accepting _you_. You never _think_ about what you do and its consequences. Don't you think that the Dark Brotherhood chooses to do everything without considering the chain of actions that will follow..." her sister's voice trembled, quieted down to a whisper, before finally closing her mouth. She did that thing again, where she stared into Linne's soul, baiting her sister's reaction.

But Linne stayed quiet, never looking at Niera, and kept her thoughts to herself. Niera looked at her for a few moments, before turning her head back to the road and briskly walked off.

The silence was almost too unbearable, and Linne didn't dare to walk next to her sister. She stayed a good few paces behind, looking at anything but the slowly appearing stables that resided outside Cheydinhal's gates.

They don't really hate each other. Niera _always_ acted like this, taking out her anger to Linne, just to erase the guilt of murdering someone. Even Linne knew it would do no good, nor would it completely chase away the guilt of taking somebody's life that haunted Niera. Then Linne would repeat the same words Niera had said not an hour ago. _They are in the Void now, the best place anyone could ever hope for after they die._

_At least I think it is._

When Niera was not angry with Linne for any likely reason than the pressuring guilt of being an assassin, she was a kind sister, understanding Linne's carefree nature. Her words won't sting that long, won't hurt Linne so bad that she would cry over it at night. Linne was not a weeping baby anymore. She's already a woman grown, despite what Niera said.

But the words she said, _The Night Mother never considered accepting you because of your carefree nature_... it hit her harder than anything in her life, more than the death of her mother, and father...

Linne shook her head and cleared her face of any emotion as they neared Cheydinhal. She dared not speak a word ever since their last exchange, but thinking of the guilt of being a killer, and the Dark Brotherhood, and Linne's own wanting of joining, even if she was not 'worthy' or 'skilled' yet, Linne swallowed before finally asking, "What is it like being an assassin, Niera?"

For a few seconds, Linne was convinced that Niera chose to ignore the question or didn't hear, but suddenly her sister said, "There's no feeling in the world like it."

Linne nodded, and didn't ask anymore. She didn't want to anger Niera any longer, nor test her sister's patience.

She didn't need to, anyway, since Niera explained further, "To be an assassin, and one such a high caliber to be chosen by the Night Mother, you must be prepared and ready for the tasks you will face, and the life you will live. Hiding in the shadows, never known by the world, silent as a shadow, keen as an eagle's eye..."

"And quick as lightning," Linne completed. For the first time since their overall conversation, Niera smiled. Linne couldn't help but smile too. Seeing her sister smile like that always made her happy. She wanted to please her sister, not anger her like she usually did. It sometimes felt like Niera wanted that too.

"Exactly, little sister," Niera continued, "at least you've learned that." She stopped just a few meters away from the gate, where the guards and the stable workers couldn't see, and pulled out a simple burlap cloak from her pack. She covered herself with it, the green colour of it completely hiding the suspicious armour Niera wore underneath. Only after she tied the knot to secure the cloak, she continued to elaborate, "There really is no feeling like it. And when you're in the Dark Brotherhood, you have others like you to understand just how ethereal it all feels.

"The first time is always the one you'll enjoy greatest. Where you discover just how many ways you can end someone's life," her tone was a murmur, and they were walking slowly so that nobody could hear her, "and then when you find out you needed more. You wanted to kill another. And you get a contract from the Dark Brotherhood."

"But that's not how you joined, right? You didn't instantly get a contract."

Niera hesitated, "I... killed somebody that I knew needed to be killed. It was simple as that. But I was seen. Not by guards, or townspeople, but the Speaker who recruited me himself."

"Lucien Lachance."

Linne knew that name too well. Her sister thought that she didn't see the confrontation just because she was a mild six year old, but Linne could never forget that night. That night when they waited for father to come home from the Weynon Priory just outside Chorrol, after praying for their mother who died a month from that night.

Yet he never arrived, and Niera never slept. Linne dozed for a few minutes in their parlor before waking again. Niera sat on a bench, keeping a watchful eye for any signs of their father. Only when—_if_ he arrived will she sleep soundly.

As she closed her eyes, and then opened them again, Linne caught a glimpse of the door opening ever so slightly, and her eyes wandered to the small, scared figure which was her sister, only five-and-ten at that time. She sat up more warily, and was shaking. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice quavering so much that Linne herself was afraid. It was very out of the norm that Niera did not radiate the strong confidence that she always had, but then she was just a vulnerable girl, waiting for her father to protect her.

For a second the door was open like that, and then it closed with a quiet click. Nobody even entered.

That was before a green vapor appeared just inches from Niera, and revealed a man wearing a robe that was black as night. Her sister stood up, but Linne didn't even have the energy to sit up. It was as if she was paralyzed.

Their exchange was murmurs that six-year-old Linne could not understand. Only the words _kill_, _family_, and _murderer_. The next few days, father never returned, and Linne had asked Niera where he was.

"He'll never return," she had said simply, her face blank as she gathered all her things and Linne's, and put them in their own respective bags. "I need to go, I will return, and then we will leave Chorrol forever. There will be no protests. We will never look back. Understand?"

Linne did not understand at that time, and pulled the assumption that Lucien Lachance had killed father. She hated the name, even though they only met seven years ago, and never saw each other again. He murdered her father, and that was certain.

Only Niera's voice interrupted her reverie, "My first kill was that day, when I promised you I will return to you and bring us to Cheydinhal."

No, that wasn't right. It sounded too odd to Linne, and the more the turned the sentence in her head, the more it made sense to her. "No, Lucien appeared the night before that, so he _must've_ seen you kill someone. You murdered someone before that."

Niera frowned when she realised the flaw in her lie, and Linne caught on that she just confessed that she saw the exchange between Lucien and her. _That was never supposed to come out_. "So you saw? You _heard _what happened?"

"I didn't mean that—I mean, I _did_ see what happened, but I didn't understand at that time—"

"No. No, it doesn't matter anymore," her sister cut off, breathing raggedly, "You wouldn't understand, even now. You never would." Niera was looking to her left, and then to her right, and then continued, "I need to leave you at the inn again. It's the best place I could give you apart from the chapel undercroft. I've already paid for your room, just remember—"

"Don't cause trouble, don't be foolish..." Linne trailed off. Niera nodded, and walked in a normal pace. Just when Linne thought she had pulled the kind-sister out from Niera, the Dark Brotherhood part of her took over and interrupted their most civilized conversation this day.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Niera began as she nodded at the guards who opened the gates for them, "and I don't want you in trouble."

"Or in jail," Linne offered with a grin, but Niera did not see nor hear.

After they went through the gate, Niera said one last farewell before walking towards the other road and disappeared underneath her Chameleon spell.

Well, the inn _was_ better than hiding underneath the chapel.

* * *

Ocheeva greeted her as usual; a smile on her red and green scaled face, arms open as if to embrace someone, and Niera had to force a smile of her own in answer. "Welcome back, dear Sister! Have you taken care of Adamus Phillida?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," Niera said with a pleased smile on her face, which the Argonian shared, "_and_ I've put his finger—complete with the ring—inside his successor's desk."

Ocheeva's delight could have been hidden better. She chuckled in her raspy Argonian voice, "Very well done as usual, Niera. With Adamus out of the way, we've secured our family's safety, even in these troubled times. And with that, you've earned the title of assassin."

"Assassin." The Breton girl's face brightened if only for a while. "Wouldn't that mean there are chances I could be chosen as a Silencer?"

Ocheeva's smile also faltered as she reached inside her pocket, grabbing a pouch filled with approximately five hundred septims, as was promised. But in her hand there was another object; a piece of parchment. When she brought it closer for Niera to inspect, as she also gave the gold, Niera's face drained of all colour.

"It's from Lucien," Ocheeva said. Niera blinked unbelievably at the envelope the other woman was holding out to her, before taking it into her own hands. "It must be a matter of great import that he sends a message with a letter, dear Sister. He usually trusts us to tell his messages in person."

Niera cautiously tore the envelope's rim and took out the letter, looking into it with her eyes wide. She almost couldn't believe her fate was written on the paper. If this was anything out of her ability... what could she possibly do? Would

_"_Well?" Ocheeva said after Niera finished reading it the second time, the latter's heart beating in a concerning pace, "What does it say?"

For a while, Niera did not answer, instead still staring at the letter as if her life clung to it. And it did. Who would give away a secret that was as valuable as her life? "I could not say," was what she said before she dismissed herself and entered the Dark Brotherhood living quarters, thinking, _what could Lachance possibly need from me?_

It was then that she sat on her bed, not bothering to change into something more comfortable and fit for sleeping, that she put her suspicions and the letter together. _This is it,_ she lied down on the bed, though sleep did not take her, and it seemed she would leave the Sanctuary without ever having a lie-down, _I will become Lucien Lachance's Silencer._

She went out the Sanctuary when nobody was there to witness her run off, just a few hours after dusk.

**-~O~-**

I _really_ didn't see how different Niera's character was when I was writing this. Only when I proofread it did I think, _Holy cow, what happened to _her_?_ It's like she's got some serious issues. Heh, maybe it'll be better that way. I can just bet that writing her would be much _fun_.

**Kathi With An I: Thank you! It's exactly the same with me when Unlikely Heroes was gone. When it was back and better than before, I was so happy because I could read Ivar's awesomeness again. Thanks again for the review!**


	3. The Door to Paradise

Author's Note: Another long chapter! Hooray/Oh noes!

Most of them are filler-character-back-story though...

Well, _anyways_, this was originally later chapter-release-wise, but since I thought chronologically it would not confuse most, this is Chapter 2 of Blood of the Septim Version Two. As always, your reviews are very welcome, and my greatest thanks for those who have reviewed the previous chapters!

**-~O~-**

Chapter 2: The Door to Paradise

**-~O~-**

Even though Martin Septim was sitting right in front of the fireplace, and was covered in a fur coat that Jauffre lent him, the cold night air was not lessened by the warmth those things brought. Indeed, it did not even ease his feelings in the slightest.

He dared not stare at the flames that licked each other, reaching up to the hearth's ceiling, before going down again. To do so would revive the memories of the Battle of Bruma that took place not even a fortnight ago. The flames that beckoned them inside the Oblivion gate. The heat of the always freezing Jerall Mountains.

He led the battle. He led those men to their deaths. He was responsible for the damage it caused Bruma. All for the sake of gaining the Amulet of Kings, to prove his heritage, that he was blood of a Septim.

A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered that foul night in Kvatch, the only home he knew, where the people appreciated what he was, _who_ he was, before this madness even started. That was when the first gate to Oblivion appeared in who knows how long. And it devoured Kvatch until there was nothing left to rebuild; only the Chapel stood strong, but still in a state of ruin.

_And when you learned you were Uriel Septim's bastard..._

It was thanks to his friend, Josephus that he was pulled into his current fate. Martin briefly wondered what would have happened to himself if the Imperial man did not appear to close the Oblivion gate destroying Kvatch, and informing Martin of his bloodline. His _true_ bloodline...

He probably would be dead. Either by the Daedra, or the Mythic Dawn assassins, or himself. A part of him tried to forget the past, that it was over and nothing could be done about Kvatch, Bruma, and soon the other cities—_provinces_ even—would be needed to be put at risk to avoid such dangers that Tamriel would face.

Yet another part of him said he could never forget what happened. _If you forget, you will forget who you are_.

"There's a gloomy sight," a voice chirped. Martin nearly jumped from his seat, but Josephus only grinned and brought a chair beside his own, "No need to run away, friend. There's no one who wants to kill you now."

"How very wrong you are. I'm sure every body wants to kill me," Martin looked back at the flames, then away again, remembering the main reason _why_ he tried not to stare at the fire. "Every body and their shadows too."

"I never knew you're scared of your own shadows!" Josephus put a hand to his heart, as if in shock. Martin frowned, looked down at his hands, then at the floor, never glancing at the flames. "Alright, don't be offended. I don't want to be hauled to the dungeons when you get to play Emperor."

"_If_," Martin corrected, "We don't know if we'll succeed this time, Josephus. There are many dangers you will face in Paradise, you know that."

Josephus rolled his eyes and put a chunk of bread on Martin's lap out of the blue. _Where did he even get that?_ "I don't, actually. Care to explain, oh wise Emperor?"

"This is no laughing matter, Josephus." Yet when Martin ripped a part of the soft, warm bread, he could not help but smile at his friend. The friend that stuck with him and would travel all around Cyrodiil just to prove that Martin Septim was indeed an emperor. All around Cyrodiil and Oblivion would be more correct, perhaps.

"You take matters too seriously, my friend. If just the thought of me going into Paradise and, let me assure you, _succeed_ in ripping that amulet off of Mankar Camoran worries you so much, how would you even rule Tamriel later? I could imagine more wrinkles on your face."

Martin's hand subconsciously traced his face and frowned. He had aged so much ever since Kvatch. When he was just a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh, he could have sworn he looked nothing like his father the Emperor. Now, he resembled him in appearance much more than what he considered comfortable.

_Does he doubt his every move, I wonder? Does he hesitate to put his trusted friends in risk for the sake of Tamriel, or would he keep them away from danger?_

Josephus chuckled at Martin's disgusted look, nearly choking over his own bread. "Oh, my lord, don't be so scornful over your own face! I'm sure there are many ladies—indeed, many—just _blushing_ if you happen to glance at them!" Josephus mimicked what Martin thought would be the voice of a dying cow, "_Oh, my lord! It would be an honour to be looked upon by you!_"

"You're scaring away the hypothetical ladies, Josephus."

"Nay, they'll come back when they know you're near."

Martin ran a hand over his face and wished his friend would stop talking. At least his face was covered when he blushed. Well, the heat of his face seemed to help the coldness in his body. "I don't know why I'm still here, alive and well, when I've people like you for company."

"No, no, you've got it all wrong," Josephus clicked his tongue in a scolding manner, his expression _trying_ to mimic that of a mother angry with her child, "Nobody here is like me. Have you heard anybody laughing like me?" he laughed, "Or grin like me, making the women swoon?" he grinned at Caroline, who was passing by. She raised an eyebrow and continued walking towards the barracks, "She _swooned!_ We just didn't see."

"I'm sure of that," Martin smiled, biting into his bread again. The Great Hall was nearly empty now, only two other people beside him and Josephus eating dinner. "So," Martin started, doing anything to break the silence.

"Yes?"

"Who were you, before you wounded up in prison?" Martin felt as though Josephus grew uncomfortable by the question, and for a second, he thought Josephus might squirm. He never squirms. "If you are fine with telling the tale, of course—"

"Oh, it's alright. Before spending three weeks in prison, I was Josephus," he answered, a small smile gracing his lips, "yet so different from this Josephus."

"Well, obviously," Martin rolled his eyes, but Josephus' nonsensical humour was welcome. It was better than an eerie silence that would eventually lead Martin to think of the damnable plan to send Josephus to Paradise.

_Anything_.

Josephus was silent for a while, and Martin thought he wouldn't continue when he then started, "It was the tenth of Last Seed, exactly half a year ago. I was... just a simple thief, trying to feed my little brother. My mother left us long ago, my father joined the Legion but never really came back home after a few months. It was devastating, especially for a twelve year old and his little brother half his age. Living the streets in Chorrol was difficult, but we made it through a few winters before I knew I couldn't pickpocket anybody who was in the market stalls. I needed something bigger, grander."

"Does this involve the Thieves Guild?" Martin frowned. He heard that his father the farmer—his false father all this time—always had problems with thieves pillaging his crops.

"It was the past, I'm sure you could forgive me. And I was desperate," Josephus' smile was completely gone now, his face filled with regret and shame. "I always wished I didn't need to take part of the guild, but I needed more money. If not, it could cost me and my brother's life. I couldn't do that."

Martin sighed. "Forgive me for judging you quickly. I quite forgot that your actions are excused for the endless tasks you completed for me."

Josephus nodded and looked into the flames, before throwing a burnt piece of his bread into it. "I regretted my crimes, and what I did in the past was foolish. But nothing could be done about that." He threw a look at Martin, and the soon to be emperor grew uneasy, "And if I'm correct you're not exactly innocent either. What was that thing you said about Sanguine's Rose?"

"Yes, I'm not so innocent, and I regret what I did same as you," Martin snapped. He did not want to mention his Daedra worshipping days. It was a rebellious phase for him when he was younger. Younger, naïve, and foolish. An awkward silence ensued. "What happened that you got caught?"

"Oh, I didn't get caught. I gave myself in."

Martin was flabbergasted. "What?"

"My brother was nine then, and I was fifteen. It was a peaceful afternoon in Chorrol. We've already bought ourselves a home, but it wasn't a manse. Nothing could go wrong... but then my brother acted strange. Said he saw one of our neighbour... oh, what was his name? It escaped me. Never mind. Said our neighbour died, murdered even, in Weynon Priory."

"How was it strange?" Martin asked.

Josephus shrugged, "My brother said that this neighbour's own daughter killed him. He acted all craven and suggested we completely move our arses to the Imperial City. He _never_ liked the Imperial City, but I went along anyway."

"And you gave yourself in?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, _my lord_," Josephus smiled wryly, "we're about to get there and probably would have _now_ if you didn't interrupt.

"In spite of that, though, we arrived in the Imperial City not days after we left Chorrol. There were friends of my 'friends' in the city. Soon enough we agreed to meet somewhere and planned a heist for one of the merchants in the Market District. It was nice, having people to talk to and understand what you want.

"My brother, however, was the exact opposite. He, of all people, followed in our father's footsteps. He joined the city guards to get a place for himself, some place where _I'm_ not. The barracks was fine for him, he said. They got food and bed. A modest pay too, but it was only... eh, what it is. Modest."

"Your brother? When you yourself is—pardon, _was_ a thief?" Martin asked incredulously, "I don't see why he'd do that other than for wealth."

"Me neither," Josephus said, shrugging and taking the final bite of his bread, "but he can be an idiot sometimes. A traitorous idiot."

"Let me guess; he was the one who reported your crimes to the guards?"

Josephus scoffed. "I'm starting to think you didn't even pay attention to anything I said. _I_ gave myself in, _he_ was a guard. How difficult is it to remember those details?"

"You're telling someone a tale that person doesn't know. He could not really understand the tale the first time you tell it." Martin crossed his arms. "I could list a few things that a first-time hearer wouldn't pay attention or care about: the murder, your age. A good story-teller would probably leave the ages to the hearer's imagination, and let them ask questions that would allow you to _elaborate_ the tale further. Not put them all in one breath. _That _is what a good story-teller would be. And so far you do not look like a very good paradigm."

A sigh escaped Josephus' mouth, and he rubbed his hands together and swept the bread crumbs from his leather trousers. "At least I'm not singing the tale," he grinned, "_And my brother, oh, he was a twit. His daily need was sleep and eat and sh_—"

"You were a thief, _not_ a bard!" Martin tried to cover his ears to block out Josephus' singing. It only caused the Imperial man to laugh heartily, and briefly choking.

"Oh, well now. I guess if you put it that way being a thief isn't so bad. But I digress; when my friends and I got through the whole scheme, we had a good drink in the inn. And guess who was there to share mead with me? _My brother_, who did not even arrive on my sixteenth name day that year. Oh, sod it. He's still a stick in the mud, I'm sure.

"So there I was, drunk from all the mead and the adrenaline from victory. My brother wasn't donning his guard armour, so I figured; maybe he's the same brother in Chorrol who would look after my back when I was trying to steal a chicken's egg."

"He was not," Martin concluded, and took a deep breath. It nearly stung his dry throat.

"He was not," Josephus confirmed, "It turns out, when I told him of my new-found friends and riches, he was a city guard at heart."

Martin nodded understandingly and blinked the fatigue out of his eye. He wanted to sleep, but he must stay alert and ready to perform the necessary ritual to open the portal to Paradise. Then he remembered if he does that, he might not even sleep for a long time. Think of all the nightmares he would have in the following days.

"So I told him of my success, he just stared at me and my friends, and he _rebuked_ me. It was not too long before he clasped me in irons and hauled me to the dungeons himself. My sodding friends were lucky to escape. I'm starting to think maybe my brother only hauled me off because he had a grudge or something," Josephus said, breaking off Martin's dark thoughts. He shook his head as he continued to look at the flames. "I've never seen him again, not even when I went to the same inn the whole thing happened after I escaped from prison, more or less officially pardoned by your father."

"That is quite the tale," Martin said nonchalantly, his attention already gone a few sentences ago, "I don't know whether to think you were fortunate or not."

"I'd think a mix of both," Josephus turned to him and smiled, "it's been an honour serving you, my lord. If there is anything that could justify my sins, it would be this. Being a friend of yours."

Martin turned to look at Josephus and tried to see if he was being sarcastic or not. His brown eyes showed no mirth, but it was something... something unfamiliar that Martin had seen some time before, a happier time in Kvatch.

It was trust. Josephus trusted Martin with his life, and vice versa. He believed that Martin was Emperor Uriel Septim's bastard and brought him safely to Weynon Priory, and then to Cloud Ruler Temple, and to all sorts of danger just to prove that Martin was blood of a Septim.

And Martin would send off his most trusted ally into Paradise, an unpredictable place filled with peril, and the fate of the empire was on their shoulders.

Josephus stretched in his seat and yawned, and too casually asked, "So, when will we open the portal to Paradise?"

Martin was envious as to how the Hero of Kvatch and Bruma, so-called Knight of the Thorn, and judging from his _brilliant_ story, a thief, could possibly take this task any less seriously. Then again, those titles could not have been earned without experience. Josephus would know better than to cower and brood over such a thing as simple as doing a ritual to open a portal.

But that was Martin's task; opening the portal. Josephus' was retaking the Amulet of Kings and making it out alive. It was obvious whose task was much more risky, and it may be that this would all be for nothing. He was not a Septim heir. Or Mankar Camoran, in all his madness, destroyed the Amulet of Kings; blatantly smashing it into pieces, or reform it in such a way that it would not be possible to light the Dragonfires with it.

And to think that Martin was here, all gloomy and solemn as if somebody _died_.

_Somebody will_, a small part of Martin said, _so many will if you don't do this._

Martin was no fool, though. He knew that even as Emperor he could not keep anyone alive. He remembered a fellow devout of Sanguine once, a Khajiit by the name of K'mhari—if memory served—who would always, _always_, say, "Sacrifices must be made." It only intensified when Sanguine saw fit for the Khajiit to... entertain a few folks from Bravil and made a show of painting his bare skin in various colours, only to roll his body against every wall there was to smear with his body. He snapped his tail in his crazed state, but Sanguine made sure that they celebrated his success on crossing every citizen in Bravil.

He didn't want to remember _what_ celebration they held.

The point stood, however, that whether or not he would be Emperor, sacrifices would be made and _must_ be made. A sinister shiver ran down his spine and he closed his eyes momentarily to calm his thoughts. The burden on his shoulder felt heavier than ever when he was affected with fatigue, but he must not sleep, must not doze off, and must not lose focus.

Josephus sighed and stood up, "Well, with your leave, _my lord_, I suppose I would be going to the East Wing and vent out my frustration over my failure as a bard by..." he paused to think, looking around the room and finding that it was already empty. Baurus must have left already, his shift ending a few moments ago.

(When Martin first met Baurus and vice versa, Baurus was _very honoured_ and decided upon himself to be Martin's personal bodyguard.

He was a very capable warrior, but sometimes he would still insist on calling Martin by his title. Martin was convinced that the other Blades members had no mind on calling Martin by his name, but Baurus did not even notice his difference with the others.

Baurus, if Martin were to judge, was very serious about his job. He would not leave Martin's side when he was researching upon the Mysterium Xarxes, until he would rest in his chambers specifically made for the emperor. While Martin was glad that Baurus made sure that Martin's life was worth more than his and would gladly die for him, he was sure Baurus was still guilty for Uriel Septim's death.

He made sure to lighten Baurus' duties after that.)

"I suppose singing in the Library Wing wouldn't hurt anybody outside a twenty feet radius," Josephus shrugged and began humming a tune to himself, his voice going quieter when his voice was blocked out by the doors splitting the East Wing and the Great Hall. It was all silent, save for the crackling of fire until, "_AND MY BROTHER, OH, HE WAS A TWIT. HIS DAILY NEED WAS SLEEP AND EAT AND SHH!_"

Being sure nobody was there and not even looking, Martin Septim smiled and began to prepare the items for Paradise.

**-~O~-**

I know, I _know_! "Florence, wha—what are you doing? Writing long filler paragraphs just depicting Martin's _feelings_ and Josephus' background? That's _precarious_."

Well... um, I don't know.

**harari24:** Thank you! I really didn't think I'd get positive feedback, or _any_ at all, but I guess you've proven that wrong! I'll try to update as soon as I can and trying to beat the procrastinator in me. Once again, thank you for the review!


	4. Fort Farragut

Author's Note: I haven't updated in a while because my computer died down (again and again), and even though I promised I'll update at least three days ago, I rewrote a bigger part of this chapter _again_. After that long wait, here we are with the chapter I didn't really want to write at first, because version-one-Niera was a bit flat. I still didn't feel satisfied with this chapter, but that's probably my biased opinion. It's pretty short, too.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 3: Fort Farragut

**-~O~-**

The moon was shining brightly, but the road was dark however illuminated by the silver light. The torchlight only reached so far before the darkness claimed the road again. The queasy feeling in her stomach did not ease with each step; it only worsened, and the burden of the duty that called her felt heavier than before. She left Cheydinhal at dusk, but it felt as if centuries passed since the thirty or so steps away from the gate. Niera never felt like this before when going through a contract.

However, this wasn't an ordinary contract.

She looked back at Cheydinhal once more for the third time that night as she continued walking east to Fort Farragut, away from her Sanctuary, away from her regular duties as an Assassin, and away from Linne.

_She would never know how much I truly care_, Niera thought, turning her head back towards her destination. It had been difficult with Linne over the years. The girl could be a brat, a troublemaker, _and_ sympathetic, all in the same time if she was feeling like it. Niera saw no possible reason why she was acting the way she was.

Perhaps, after all this time, Linne never wanted to be in Cheydinhal despite her assurance of "I _love_ Cheydinhal. I love the architectures the houses, the two the rivers, and the painter's house. Did I mention there was a Dunmer who would sing about Cliff Racers? He has a good voice. I'm not sure if he's doing it on purpose though. He looks drunk."

_Great_. Linne loves the architectures of the houses she could never have, the river where Niera recalled somebody _committed suicide_, the missing painter's house, and a homeless drunkard. As much as Niera cared for Linne, most times she could not even understand her. As if they weren't sisters at all. As if all those years, Niera knew nothing about Linne and Linne her.

She pinched the bridge of her nose to stop the headache that struck her. It was enough that her stomach felt like it was ripping herself open. She did not need her head splitting in two.

_I must focus_, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, appearing as a fog in the cold evening. Niera looked back once more at Cheydinhal, before sighing and turning her attention back on the road. _I must focus_.

Held tightly in the hand that wasn't occupied by the task of holding the torch, was a letter.

The temptation of rereading the paper was strong enough, but Niera knew better than to stall and read the cursive lines of Lucien Lachance's writing—which was _penned and_ _worded by him_, an honour that Niera knew better than to feel deserving. _Still, it is an honour I rarely get, is it?_

The thought was enough to make her shiver—was it because of the cold?—and her eyes betrayed her mind. A glance at the header of the letter, and suddenly she _was_ rereading it again.

_Eliminator_, it began; her rank when he was writing this, no doubt. _You have served the Dark Brotherhood well in the short time you have been with us. Indeed, the rate of your advancement has been rather remarkable. Now the Black Hand itself is in need of your abilities._

Her death hold on the parchment loosened as the pain stirring in her stomach eased, if only for a short moment before it struck her again, this time much more painful. What did the Black Hand want with her? What duty? Did they want to try her skills, if she was like her father? If she was a horrible servant of Sithis? Her heart beat faster, but she continued on, for a reason even she didn't know.

_You must proceed with all haste to my private refuge in the ruins of Fort Farragut, located in the forest northeast of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. When you arrive, we will discuss the nature of your special assignment._ A special assignment; those words made even breathing difficult for Niera, but the longing and want of proving her worth made her breathe.

Niera swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat as she remembered the rest of the letter, the part she read again and again the most. She could not understand anything about what he wrote in the end: 'an unseen power working to unravel the fabrics of the Dark Brotherhood', whatever that meant.

Until finally, in her dazed state, it clicked. _It's a trap. They want to interrogate me, see if I'm a traitor. They don't want to prove my abilities; they want to prove my loyalty. What use is my skill to them if I use it to my advantage and kill them all?_

She stopped walking, considering the speculation. It was possible; in fact, why should it be anything _but_? If it was never an interrogation, however, but a simple task from the Speaker himself, what would that mean?

_Probably_, she thought as she slowly continued on the dirt and rock-strewn way, _it meant I shouldn't keep him waiting as Ocheeva said._

Soon—too soon—she found a well aged fort that could only be the one Lachance cited in his orders. The stone walls of the fort contrasted the dark trees behind it, and the moonlight seemed to favour shining on the area. The momentary beauty was lost upon her as she continued to check her supplies; her trustworthy Blade of Woe, several potions to help her through the fort...

_Also, be warned—my refuge within Fort Farragut is guarded by denizens who will attack any interloper on sight. Get through these rotting sentinels and you will surely have earned the right to visit my private sanctum_, the letter had said.

It was wise of her to follow the letter's advice. Down to her last health potion, Niera crouched around the corridor inside the fort, with more or less the best effort she could give _now_ at avoiding the Dark Guardian stationed nearby. Her breathing was ragged, and her feet were trembling. This was not good at all. If she was to fall down, the noise would alert the undead.

She stopped in her tracks, waiting rather impatiently for the Dark Guardian to turn around from facing her direction. Even if she was awful at archery, she wished she tried to bring a bow and arrows. Using only her daggers, she must wait for her enemies to lose their guard first. The only word to describe that feeling was _tiring_.

However, her wait was not in vain. At one moment, the undead turned its head away towards a sound even further in the corridor, and it was all Niera could do not to sigh and squeal in joy. She drew in a deep breath, tightened the grasp on her dagger, and one foot after another, she followed the undead as it slowly went to investigate the source of the sound.

Niera did not notice the protruding stone underneath her feet, marking her downfall. Literally.

With a gasp of shock caused by the momentum of the fall, she reached forward towards the Dark Guardian, meaning for it to go down with her. Her hand missed by inches, and as sudden as a lightning, the undead turned around. It growled and drew its blade, and Niera was still struggling to get up.

The pain from the downfall slowed her somewhat, and she was nearly butchered by the undead's sword. She aimed at its neck when it staggered itself by the almost-blow it delivered, and in one swift motion, the Dark Guardian's head rolled down the floor.

Adrenaline pumping, she kept going on, determined to get through with whatever was laid in front of her.

* * *

"Ah, you've finally arrived."

She was peaking through the door, making sure that it wasn't an unavoidable trap or a room tightly guarded by Dark Guardians, or _both_. The sight that greeted her was a square chamber with the Dark Brotherhood banners hanging on the walls, a bed on one far corner, a trap door on the ceiling leading to who knows where, and what should have been a relief to Niera, but in fact was _not_, Lucien Lachance standing in the middle of the room.

She cleared her head and drew a quick breath, exhaling as she opened the door enough so she could enter. She must not let her emotions wreck this moment. She must have a clear mind. Niera stood there, silent, unmoving, waiting to be addressed by the Speaker first. _If it will be what I expect it to be, then formality would be needed._

It seemed that Lachance sensed this, and opened an arm to welcome her in. "I've been expecting you. It was good that you did not take too long."

She walked slowly and cautiously, taking in the room once again by detail. If she was fast enough, she could try to dash from the chambers through the door should things go awry... or the rope ladder leading to the trap door that she did not even know what it was hiding. A small, closed room? That could not help. The door was her best bet to escape the situation.

If every thing turned rash.

"I am at your service, Speaker," she said with a slight bow, being dead set on her _formality_ plan, but Lachance only waved a hand in dismissal.

"You need not be so formal, dear Sister," he said almost carelessly, "This matter is urgent, and I would rather not waste our time with idle talks of _fake_ politeness."

Lachance's reply surprised Niera, and for a moment she did not reply. Her voice left her, and instead her head nodded almost so energetically. _No, focus. Regain control!_ "Very well. What is it that you require of me?"

"Straight to the point, the Black Hand has been experiencing a few... difficulties. I believe you heard the rumours of a traitor in the Dark Brotherhood? Surely at least Ocheeva or Antoinetta has told you," he said, never looking away, never giving Niera a chance to regain her composure.

Hoping her voice did not quaver, she answered, "I did not expect them to be more than just... simple rumours."

"We all wish they were, trust me," Lachance grumbled coldly, "The Listener has tasked us the Speakers to... oh, I nearly forgot."

The Imperial's sudden pause made Niera puzzled even more. What did he forget? He mentioned a task from the Listener. Was that what Niera's here for? That task? All the questions spun around in her mind so fast that she felt dizzy; it was already taking all the strength to stand up straight.

"Can I trust you with the duties you will be given after this meeting?" he asked, finally, after what felt like _eras_, "Will you always obey my word and never question a task?"

Even more questions. Niera was starting to breathe very deeply once more, and she tried to ease her headache to no avail, "You can trust me with your life."

"Good," he said, "because the duties you will be bestowed with _would_ require me to trust you with my life."

_Protecting his life..._ She suddenly thought of why she was here for; and it made even more sense than the 'interrogation' theory. Maybe she was summoned by Lachance to do a personal request. Something he needed done, which he trusted only to Niera. Perhaps that's _all._

But... why her? Why not Ocheeva, the mistress of the Sanctuary in Cheydinhal? She obviously was in the Brotherhood much longer than Niera had been, and swore to guard the Sanctuary to boot. A Speaker's life is only one step higher than the abandoned house.

Or Vicente, who was definitely even _much_ longer than the both of them combined. The vampire had been in the Brotherhood for... what, two centuries? More, even. And for that span, he _never_ betrayed the Dark Brotherhood, or Sithis, or the Night Mother. He had even said to her, when they first met, that his needs as a vampire were not as important as the Dark Brotherhood.

_So why me?_ It remained a question in her head, insulting her because she couldn't find out. She grew slightly irritated at the thought, scowled, and then remembered where she was and who she was with. It did not matter why Lachance chose her. What mattered was that she carries the duty truly.

"Perhaps you already know that every Speaker has their Silencer; a bodyguard, a companion. A Silencer is tasked to silence any who oppose the Speaker, permanently or not," Lachance explained, a small smile forming on his face, reminding Niera of their first ever encounter. In fact... he had even smiled _proudly_ at her—

_Wait. Silencer? What does this have to do with me?_ Niera wasn't sure where this was going, but she was sure it will involve her… _Oh, shit. Silencer, Niera. Silencer! You!_

Her headache mocked her as she tried to empty her face of any emotions, but it did not seem to work, for Lachance's smile dropped completely, "Why do you look uneasy at this?"

She stammered for an excuse, one in a tone of delight, another humble, but Lachance held up his hand all the same for her to stop. "Never mind that," he said, bringing out a dagger from his sword belt, "Know this, that once you take the position of Silencer, you cannot turn back. You must decide now whether or not you can be trusted with this."

He held the dagger by its hilt, meaning for Niera to take it, to vow that she _would_ be his Silencer. She squirmed quietly at the realisation that... yes, she _will_ be his Silencer, and she would always be at his side, ensuring his safety. However, thinking of safety only reminded her of Linne. What will happen to her if Niera was to leave her alone in Cheydinhal? She had done that previously, otherwise she would never have a single contract done. This, however, was entirely different. She could never return to Linne.

A small voice in her conscience did not win out her want to prove herself, however. "I…" she paused. Niera paled, and her heart was stuck at her throat. Her eyes glanced at the door, thinking that she could escape, she could refuse this offer, and she could keep this meeting a secret and forget everything about this incident.

But this was a once in a life time opportunity. She cannot refuse this, not ever. She would condemn her own security, but when did she ever have one? Besides, to refuse was to... to refuse was to...

_To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis,_ her mind was shouting at her, if it had a voice. Over and over again. She stood there in silence, her mouth dry. The air was colder, much colder, and she knew if Lachance had to stand there for another second, she would not make it out unscathed.

And thus was the night when the assassin took a turn in her life. "I can be trusted, my Speaker. I am your humble Silencer from this moment forth."

Lucien Lachance smiled. "A very wise decision."

She took the dagger that he held out to her, and it was done.

**-~O~-**

I originally planned to merge this chapter with the next one, where Lucien explains the whole AU situation. But darn it, this chapter's ending was the only thing I liked about this. I'm pretty sure there would be so many mistakes because I didn't have the time to proofread this. Again, very sorry for the late update.

**anon**: Thanks, I guess. Glad you found Jessi to be amusing _and_ entertaining; she could be, sometimes, when she isn't an outright—never mind.

**NicciP1991**: Thank you! I'm happy you liked their banter. Josephus was really fun to write!

**Boys Do Like Girls**: Thanks! I find their contrast to be quite the challenge to write, but it was jolly all the same in the end (if that made sense!).


	5. Their Duties

Author's Note: Such a late update, such a slow plot progression in this chapter. I can't help it. However, I promise—_promise_—that I would update quicker next chapter. I couldn't really guarantee the chapter would be good, though, but it's all according to opinions—and correct usage of the English language, of course.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 4: Their Duties

**-~O~-**

"Remember, Josephus, if you get rid of the anchor for Paradise, you might return to Cyrodiil."

"_Might?_"

"There is always an anchor to these Oblivion planes. If you, say, kill it or destroy it by any means, you will arrive back here, where the portal opened. That was how it worked with the Oblivion Gates, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then I am sure that Mankar Camoran built some sort of anchor for Paradise. You will know what it is soon enough," Martin Septim explained hurriedly. He was still casting some sort of magic to open the still nonexistent portal, whilst Josephus was standing there, tapping a foot and then another, restless. His humourous demeanor seemed lost now, as if jesting with the future emperor was centuries ago.

To be honest, as much as Josephus was prepared for another Oblivion plane, he was still nervous about this Paradise. It should stick true to its name, as Martin assured him many, _many_ times it would stick true to its name, and Josephus hoped it did, but it must be more than that. Camoran would never leave his plane unguarded, but just what guarded it? Just the thought made him shiver.

Oblivion was fine. At least he knew that the planes were hellish and would always be like that. Paradise, however, was completely unpredictable.

When he was still a thief, back in the Imperial City, before his idiot-of-a-brother joined the guards, he was alone when sneaking around in the streets, trying to figure out the city and all its contents. He put a lot of time in it, too. Some times he never returned to their room in the Merchant's Inn until the week had turned. They didn't bring much gold and food from the 'estate' they bought in Chorrol, but the coin enough to survive for two years, maybe more if they were practical, and the food would not go bad quickly.

He observed every nook and cranny in the Market District, where people went in the mornings, when the rich folk would appear. Josephus knew their schedule, their retinues should he need more sources to reap from, and their wealth. Everything he learned, all by himself.

And soon, when winter came, almost nobody went outside to the markets, and he needed to bury his thieving life for a while. Josephus' pockets were empty for so long that his fingers itched to pickpocket the innkeeper himself. But he knew better than to get kicked out from their temporary home, especially in the cold winter. He tightened his belt and stuck with the downside of being a thief, not some lord's son, or a wealthy accountant, what his mother always wanted him to be.

_Oh, dear mother_, he sighed. Martin was almost finished with the spell, he could see. A few sweat drops trickled down his forehead, even in the cold evening. Nobody except for Baurus was with them. _Not even a bard to see the tale of the Brave Hero of Kvatch and Saviour of Bruma entering Paradise. It could be a lot worse._

Martin exhaled loudly, the orb of light disappearing from his palm. He wiped his face dry of sweat once before stepping back from the large circular symbol on the floors of the Great Hall. Josephus did the same, taking a few steps back just in case, and he felt a gush of wind blowing at him when the stone portal rose from the ground, just like that.

"By the Nine..." He could not turn back now. He couldn't. He had been waiting for this, for the portal to open, but that moment of waiting still didn't help a bit. Deep down, he knew he must enter for the good of Tamriel, for Martin, for the whole world, if it went to that. But he was not sure if he could. "Tell me again what Paradise should be like. I think I'm starting to doubt its meaning."

"Paradise should stick to its meaning very well, Josephus," Martin stood back, his expression just as anxious as Josephus' was, "Lush grass, calm waters, flowers everywhere, if Camoran willed it."

For a moment, Josephus felt relieved, "That's better. It doesn't sound so bad." He took a step forward, forcing himself to take another, but found his feet were glued to the ground.

"You are missing the whole point, Josephus," his friend warned him, "You should be _cautious_. Who knows what lies beyond that portal?"

"Paradise, if what you opened was the portal to it. Was it?"

Silence took over them, and with every ticking second, Josephus knew he was losing time. Madness took over him, and he was sure without that manic feeling he would never rush in through the portal.

* * *

"The Night Mother has spoken to our... dear Listener," he said, growing grim by the end of the sentence. The Listener did nothing wrong in his eyes, yet the Speaker did not hold anything dear about him. "She has special tasks for us, one that would require an assassin of your caliber."

The Silencer did not show a hint of a smile. If she was glad that her Speaker complimented her just seconds after she earned the title, she hid it well.

Truthfully, when he had first recruited the woman, she was nothing more than an ordinary girl, forced to live with a father who denied and went against Sithis' willing. Lachance forgot who this man was that he earned his death, but he knew that he deserved it enough. Anyone who dared invoke the wrath of Sithis gets what would come to them.

The girl was so innocent that when he first arrived at her home to recruit her, she was scared. And was even more when he explained the next chapter of her life, should she want to open the pages. He even expected that she would decline, the way her brows were furrowed, her wide eyes, her tone of speaking.

She didn't, obviously, and here she was standing now. His Silencer.

"What would she have me do?" she asked, then, after a moment's thought, "What do you want me to carry out?"

Lucien considered his next words carefully. She might be loyal, but to whom did she really serve? The Night Mother? Him? Herself? "As I have mentioned before, the Listener has gotten a task from our Unholy Matron. I would spare the details of his meeting with the Speakers, and keep it brief. The Night Mother said to him, that in order to eliminate this traitor once and for all, we must purify the sanctuaries."

Her eyebrows raised at the word purify, and only then did Lucien remembered she was only in the Brotherhood in a short while—six years in, however, she should have known what the Rite was. He sighed, ""The Purification is a ritual where the sanctuary is cleansed of every soul that resides there, something that sadly was insisted when we were in similar situations."

"You do not agree with this decision," she stated, her eyes never leaving his, "And you want to find another solution."

In _other_ circumstances, Lucien might have berated her for such quick assumptions, but since she was correct, and time was of the essence, he nodded once, "Yes, I think that—" He paused; his thoughts and feelings wouldn't matter now, or her opinion of him. What _did_ matter was getting this done. "The Night Mother wishes to save the Cheydinhal Sanctuary from the Purification."

Which wasn't supposed to surprise her Silencer, but it somehow did. "But the Listener says otherwise." With a look of complete uneasiness, the Silencer backed away, "And we are not sure if this is truly what the Night Mother wishes!"

"We are also unsure if Ungolim, our dearest Listener, is right in his mind."

She scowled, "The Night Mother makes no mistakes when she chooses her servants. If the Listener says she _wants_ the sanctuaries to be purified, I would say that we should comply with her wishes." She dropped the blade that was clutched tightly in one of her hands, "And besides, how can this be done? I know no such things of these rituals yet, and if the matter is as urgent as you claim it to be, a mistake is the last thing we could ever afford to make. If anyone suspects, or rats us out—"

"Which is why you are not working alone," interrupted Lucien, already sick of her false modesty. _Cowardly_ was the most likely word to describe her reaction, backing out of the task and hiding behind a wall of unprofessionalism. "I assure you, your task is one of the simplest in our plan."

"_Our_?" she said, a look of disgust and disbelief etched on her face.

"You are my Silencer now," he snapped, "And you better act like it."

For a moment, defiance played in her eyes. She was still staring at Lucien, but he knew that she was deep in her mind. Finally, she blinked and her face loosened. "I apologise for my rashness, Speaker. Of course, I am your Silencer and I would _gladly_ carry out this task."

Silence. She was still, not even fidgeting with any of her limbs—unlike Ungolim—and if she actually did disagree with her Speaker's plans, she didn't show it—unlike Ungolim. If it was the Night Mother's will, when this whole treachery was over, perhaps she would immediately be chosen as Listener, without even being a Speaker.

Perhaps.

"Good." Lucien went over to a small table beside his make-shift bed—he certainly cannot return to this fortress after the plan has undertaken. He took the piece of parchment that he acquired a few days ago from Arquen, a recipe of a poison. Nobody could suspect him as a traitor, however, and he was fine in the mean time, for he asked his fellow Speakers for alchemy recipes from time to time, simply because he could not really master the art. "We'll start plainly. We shall save the sanctuary by fooling the Listener that they are dead."

When he turned back to his Silencer, she did not show any emotion. Almost as if she did not catch him. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course, Speaker. This other solution to the Purification requires me to fool the Listener that they're dead. Am I correct?" When Lucien nodded approvingly, she asked, "But how could I manage to do that? Surely a Silencer—and one who has just been promoted to the title—couldn't trick him so." Then, without even stopping, "No, it is not us who comes to the Listener, but rather him to us?"

Stunned in silence, Lucien forgot even his answer before he collected himself. "All will be explained, Silencer. For now, you must poison every resident in the Sanctuary with paralysis. I've asked one of my colleagues to write a potent one," he gave her the paper, "It is a very simple concoction, but it is powerful. They would be knocked out for three days, maximum. Enough time for the Listener to confirm their deaths."

"And when that comes, wouldn't he want to dispose the bodies? Or he would suspect something is amiss because their body hasn't rotten yet."

Lucien groaned, hanging his head in thought. He somehow left that part out. He expected that Ungolim would trust Lucien's word that the Sanctuary was purified, and they could move that branch of the brotherhood to somewhere... a place that was quite hidden and nobody would suspect anything was queer...

His Silencer spoke in a less questioning tone, "I can say to him that I could not bear to see my fellow brothers and sister's bodies, and so I covered them with linen and put them some place... maybe the living quarters? Surely he could understand..."

_Clever,_ he thought, but would Ungolim understand? Would he insist on checking their bodies? "There seems to be no other choice... yes, that could work."

"And then?"

"And then… we take them to where they could please the Night Mother without invoking the Listener's wrath," Lucien explained, trying to grasp his plan again, strand by strand, "An island, a continent, anywhere; as long as Ungolim believes they are dead, for so long the brotherhood will be safe and we will have enough time to investigate the treachery amongst us," he finished. Now that he had let every fiber of his plan loose, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Unless he undoes it, which seemed unlikely.

"Have you decided where the Sanctuary would reside?"

Lucien frowned, "No." Grim, he crossed his arms, "That would be taken care of in your absence, when you don't have these mindless questions to ask."

His Silencer finally showed her first sign of feelings in the minutes that passed; she frowned. "Is there anything else you need to say, then, dear _Speaker_?"

Lucien ignored the insult, "When you succeed in paralyzing them, _immediately_ return to this fort and I shall retrieve the Listener."

"That would take too long, wouldn't it?" she questioned again.

"Riding to Bravil is only half a day's span, if you have a fast steed," he said, "And I happen to have Shadowmere, my trusted horse. She would prove most useful for my journey."

His Silencer only nodded, though he knew there were more things she wanted to say. Only Lucien did not have the patience to answer her questions. He went over towards the wall his back was facing. There, a rope ladder hung from a trapdoor that led outside; a shortcut that his Silencer could have used if only she were perceptive enough. He reached up for the handle of the trapdoor and it opened effortlessly.

When he looked back at the Silencer, she was still scanning the piece of parchment in her hands. And then she let out a huge sigh, "I have no knowledge of where I could obtain such powerful and rare herbs… but I will try."

"My gratitude, Silencer," Lucien said impatiently, eager for her to get out of the fort to begin her mission. "Only, do not talk of this to anyone; even Ocheeva, or that sister of yours, what was her name again?"

It was as if this whole time the Silencer forgot the existence of her sibling, for her eyes widened, "I nearly forgot about that," she said quietly, but loud enough for Lucien to hear. There was nothing in this fort that he could not hear, even the battle that raged outside in the corridors, "There is one thing your humble Silencer must ask of you, Speaker."

Lucien groaned quietly. _She demands too much for a Silencer_. He was almost convinced the meeting would end soon, and hoped this will not post-pone any part of his plans. When she didn't continue, he looked at her impatiently, "Well? Are you just going to stand there and gape? What is it?"

"I... you know that I have a sister, in Cheydinhal," she tried to explain as quick as she could, "I fear for her safety once we travel with the brotherhood, and—"

"Family, is it? And what does she have to do with all of this?" Lucien resisted the urge to spit, but did not continue to harass the Silencer. She did, however, wince at his tone of voice and knew better than to defend herself.

She took a deep breath and looked down once more, "Speaker, I only ask if she may come with us, become part of the Brotherhood. She is not yet of age when I was first recruited, but she is loyal, and she will obey anything you give her," she bit her lip, which was something that Lucien never saw her do, "She is not very skilled with weapons, but with time, she will be able."

Lucien did not want to deal with this matter for now—for _any time_, to be honest—and he had no time to see if what his Silencer said was true. He had no other saying in the matter except to reject her or accept her. The first option would probably give him more of the Silencer's convincing, and more time wasted. The last... the Dark Brotherhood was not a charity, and he could not guarantee the safety of her sister. "For the meantime, she stays with you. You take her to gather the herbs for the potions, give her the experience of being an assassin if it needs be, but I do not promise that she could be unharmed if she is capable of joining us."

The Silencer smiled gratefully, "I thank you so much, Speaker. I promise she would not—"

"Are you going to waste our time with idle formality?"

It was enough to quiet her, and she walked over to the rope ladder. She peered outside and found the dark outskirts of Cheydinhal, "I will leave through here?"

"And arrive through here, should you come back unscathed. But I am sure you will," Lucien said, completely rid of his patience, "Now go. Do not waste our time even more."

"Farewell, Speaker," she said as she climbed the ladder, taking a last look at him, a piercing gaze that she gave him just moments ago.

"And you, Silencer."

**-~O~-**

I just keep going on like that, eh? Posting chapters once every five or six days without even a properly proper chapter, but I think this one is slightly better than the previous version. Which was not only short, but out of character.

Heh. Anyways. Reviews are my muse. Reviews are my moose. Erm... no, not moose...


	6. The Journey to Carac Agaialor

Author's Note: Alright. Next chapter, completely in one POV since it's just the nature of the chapter. Reviews are most welcome!

**-~O~-**

Chapter 5: The Journey to Carac Agailor

**-~O~-**

It _did_ stick true to its name... but Josephus was not a fool to believe that Paradise would be free of daedric creatures roaming about that guarded Mankar's hideout, somewhere in this unknown land.

He closed his eyes from the blurry, bright colours that were in front of him, his nausea worsening by the second. Martin was _not_ joking when he said that Paradise was nothing like an ordinary, hellish Oblivion plane. For a start, Oblivion gates didn't teleport him by swirling in a rapid, circular motion. Or was that all in his head?

All that he knew that thinking of going around in circles, in a speed that would allow you to retch on your on face, was making him sick.

Despite that, he knew time was ticking away, not waiting for him to recover. Trying to bring one foot in front of him, to support him standing up, he remembered why he was here. What his duty was.

Horrible mistake. Just when he tried to bring his whole weight on two feet, kneeling first, his head spun so fast that he had to sit back again, damning time to hell.

_A few minutes. That's all I need_. Tamriel could _wait_ a few minutes. It would be _nothing_ compared to waiting for days until he arrived back to Cyrodiil. Or, if he was feeling optimistic enough—and if it was possible, hours.

When Josephus finally stopped spinning from the aftermath of rushing into the portal—which he could be kindly reminded, _was a result of madness_—he squinted his eyes to see Paradise clearly. If there was an end to Paradise, there seemed to be none shown when he looked at the far horizon, the calm, muted orange waving as if nothing extraordinary was happening. He was standing on a loose stone pavement, covering the dirt underneath, and it was so otherworldly that an Oblivion plane could be so _peaceful_.

And the flowers! They were too beautiful to even be considered a spawn of evil, seeing that Mankar himself seemed to conjure them.

"_**So, the cat's paw of the Septims arrives at last. You didn't think you could take me unaware, here of all places? In the Paradise that I created?"**_ the man in question's voice boomed from nowhere. Josephus looked around slowly, reminding himself over and over again that there might be enemies nearby. He touched the hilt of his steel sword in one hand, prepared to fight the foes that Mankar sent... if there were any.

For a while, it was eerily silent. The wind blew a breeze which brought the scent of earth; or at least as realistic earth as Mankar could make. The atmosphere that clouded him so suddenly reminded him of home. Not of the Imperial City, the busy streets, but of Chorrol. When he was not trying to steal from the market stalls. When he stopped at the outskirts to breathe in freedom. He imagined freedom to smell like grass, the ocean. Where the only floor beneath him was grass, cold from the early spring.

It was frightening to think that Paradise resembled that so much.

"_**Look now upon my Paradise,"**_ Camoran continued, as if watchful that Josephus was doing exactly so. Perhaps he _could_ see him now. _**"Gaia Alatar, in the old tongue. A **_**vision**_** of the past... and the future."**_

He tried to block out more of Camoran's mad rambling as he tried to walk, and when that did not result in a headache, he took to a steady pace, the leather armouring his body silent when he moved. Some words flew by, something about Tamriel reborn. Truthfully, Josephus only wanted to get this over.

With every step he took, he needed to stop, despite what he convinced himself about time wasting by. Paradise was just so magnificent that it was difficult to believe that it truly existed... if only as an Oblivion plane. Ambrosias decorated a patch of meadow in the distance to his left, where also a ruin of an arch made of pure white marble stood proudly, covered in vines and ivy. A shore connecting the land and the never ending sea was a view that greeted him if he looked to his right. A reflection of the sun was enough to snap him back to reality.

_Damn you, Josephus, stop standing in awe. Martin is putting the burden of the Empire on you. You _mustnot_ fail!_

The road took a turn uphill, and that was when Mankar finally said, as if _happy_ and very much expecting Josephus to survive, _**"If you are truly the hero of destiny, as I hope, the garden will not hold you for long."**_

* * *

The first daedra—nothing less than a clannfear—took him by surprise when he was examining the road, where he needed to go. Its claws aimed at his stomach, but thankfully his reflexes were fast enough to dodge it. It snarled and charged aimlessly at him, but Josephus already drew his sword and had the edge pointing towards it. The clannfear recoiled in pain and clutched the shoulder that was wounded, and that was chance enough for him to stab its chest.

Taking a deep breath, he knelt and wiped the blood from his sword to the gold-green grass nearby a tree. It _still_ felt strange to fight in such a peaceful looking world.

"_**How little you understand! You cannot stop Lord Dagon!"**_ Mankar's voice cut the silence like a hot knife through butter. Josephus scowled and ignored his speech entirely, and Camoran sensed this, for his voice grew angrier and louder until Josephus could not even ignore it, _**"Tamriel is just one more Daedric realm of Oblivion, long since lost to its Prince when he was betrayed by those that served him. Lord Dagon can not invade Tamriel, his birthright! He comes to liberate the Occupied Lands!"**_

A Xivilai, busy with patrolling what Mankar called the Savage Garden, appeared in the distance, and Josephus cursed quietly. He longed to climb to a tree and throw one of his knives, a specialty he grew to master if you were bored in a lousy day of thieving.

"_**How is it that Daedra forthrightly proclaim themselves to man, while the gods cower behind statues and faithless words of traitor priests?"**_

He maintained his crouched position, praying to the Nine that this Xivilai wouldn't notice him. He blended with the trees, watching the daedra through the gap between trunks.

"_**It is simple. They are not gods at all. The truth has been in front of you since you were born. The Daedra are the true gods of this universe."**_

_In your mad mind, you mean,_ Josephus thought, keeping in mind that Camoran's words did not affect him in the slightest. His mentality must be preserved. He must be strong willed. The Xivilai continued down the stone road, paying no mind to the trees Josephus was hiding behind, and for that, he was grateful. He went for another fifteen or so feet before emerging from the trees, and the Xivilai was far behind him.

"_**Why do you think your world has always been contested ground, the arenas of power and immortals? It is Tamriel, the realm of change, brother to madness, sister to deception."**_

Josephus only made it not one yard before he spotted a human—something he did not expect to find in Paradise. She was wearing smalls on her chest and simple pants to serve as clothing. Her hair was covered in dirt, and it was quite obvious she was tortured over and over, judging from the bruises and cuts on her skin. She didn't even look younger than forty. He looked at her with pity, walking over to her. "Who are you?"

When she looked at him, she widened her eyes in horror and covered herself with bony hands. She must have been expecting someone threatening. "P-p-please, milord, no more! Mercy!"

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said gently, "Who are you?"

She hesitated, but she lowered her arms so that he could see her face, lined with age, "I... I don't remember. I have no identity, only that I am a devout follower of Lord Mehrunes Dagon and Lord Mankar Camoran. My loyalty is with them, and for that Lord Camoran granted me eternal life here in Paradise, to be tested for my very best here. I am eternally grateful for them both."

Josephus could clearly hear the lie from her tone of speaking. "I suppose _tested_ means tortured."

"I... I'm not allowed to speak of it," she said, her eyes welling with tears, and before Josephus could even say anything else, she was running from him, to where he did not know.

"Is this how you would rule, Camoran?" he shouted, throat clenching in anger, a fury that he did not even know he had, "Is _this_ how your god would treat us mortals?" Camoran did not respond. He was silent, and Josephus was sure he did not have an answer to _that_. "You and your so-called Mehrunes Dagon are cowards hiding behind madness! If you are a true servant of Dagon you _would_ confront me now in the Savage Garden, prove your loyalty to him, and show how you would die for him!"

When he was finished, his voice was hoarse and he did not realise that he himself was close to tears. Was it because the woman's green eyes, her face that looked so sorrowful he wanted so badly to _free_ her? Free the woman from her eternal torture, who resembled his mother greatly? There was, however, nothing he could do to free her. Not even to lessen the pain...

The answer he got was a hoarse, demonic voice of the Xivilai who heard his shout. "_Die!_" it cried, charging towards Josephus who was not quick enough to draw his sword before the daedra swung its mace at his arm—his _sword_ arm—and he heard his bones crush from the attack. The pain was unbearable and he was near to passing out before he felt a warmth trickling down from his shoulder to his hand. He did not know where it came from—he did not know any healing spells. Proper ones, anyways—but he welcomed the sensation.

When he focused his eyes on the Xivilai, it was turned on the woman he met earlier, and one hit of the Xivilai's mace was enough to kill her. She fell limp to the ground, lifeless, and Josephus' heart tugged painfully. He would not let her distraction go in vain. Josephus drew his sword, and the noise it made turned the Xivilai around.

Its face was scowling and it roared, before he brought the mace down to hit Josephus squarely in the face. His sword managed to block the hit, but only so much that he staggered backwards at the force of it. The Xivilai swung his mace rapidly, as if it was not heavy at all, and it took Josephus' energy quickly just side-stepping the attacks. When finally there was an opening in the Xivilai's side, a result of its clumsy swinging, Josephus drove the attack. Its skin was harder than the thickest leather Josephus knew, but the Xivilai screamed in pain and swung the mace in his direction. Josephus abandoned his sword that was stuck on the Xivilai, and he ran. Ran as fast as he could, until he was too fatigued to continue.

_This is it,_ he thought darkly, catching a breath, _I'll die now. At least I'll die knowing I did my best and redeemed myself._

_Martin Septim, I failed_.

Behind him, he could hear the Xivilai snarling. He waited for the blow; he waited for death to take him. They said your life flashed in front of you when you die. He remembered it all. The panic and unease when he entered the Great Oblivion Gate in Bruma. _It was for the greater good_. The last word he said to his brother. _At least I could sleep easy knowing you did your duty, Lucas._ The last time he felt so secure. _With the Blades, where I was accepted._ The last time he put his whole life in danger for someone. _Martin. My friend._

"For Martin Septim!" he cried out, turning around to confront the Xivilai, but he saw only the old woman, alive, fighting the daedra with a sword. _His_ sword, now that he saw the gash on the Xivilai's side. It was the second time she saved him. The second time Josephus owed her to free her, to destroy this false Paradise he was awing over just moments ago.

His battle cry did not distract the two, so engrossed in their fight. Realising he was not doing anything to help the woman Josephus scanned the environment for a weapon, anything that could hurt the Xivilai. There was none in sight, and for that Josephus cursed loudly, before a thought came to his mind. He grabbed a loose rock from the dirt road and went closer to the fight, and threw.

It hit the Xivilai's head, and when the shock of it momentarily stopped the Xivilai from waving his mace, the woman drove the sword deeply into its chest, and when Josephus went closer to her, her expression was vengeful, satisfied, and for a long time she did not pull the sword out. She watched the Xivilai's eyes as its life drained away.

"Thank you," Josephus breathed out when she took the sword out with quite an effort. She let out a sigh and turned to Josephus, and for a second he panicked when she raised the sword to him. _Will she be the one to kill me?_ It surprised him, however, when she turned the sword around to its hilt, handing it to him.

"At long last, the Xivilai is dead. Many more roam this Paradise but for this moment, there is nothing that is endangering me," she said, smiling at him, and when he only stared at her, she glanced at the sword in her hands as if showing the obvious, "I'm pretty sure there are better things for you to do other than staying here. There's nothing else you could do for me, now."

Amazed, Josephus nodded and took the blade, and it felt heavier because of how fatigued he was. He sheathed his sword with difficulty, and when he looked up at the woman, she was already gone. _She is more in many ways so much like mother. The difference is... mother would never risk her life for me._

"Camoran," he said, loud enough for only himself to hear, "you are lacking supporters in your so-called Paradise."

* * *

However lacking in supporters, however, there were always daedra or dremora that secured the path leading to Camoran's palace, as he mentioned in his mad ramblings, Carac Agailor. It was very unfortunate that Josephus did not even realise the dremora guarding a bridge made of pure white marble similar to that of the gazebo.

"Halt!" the demon rasped, which shocked Josephus more than anything could in the world. Why did he have to pay attention to the setting sun—how was that possible in an Oblivion plane?

"Dibella's breasts, you're a son of a bitch!" Josephus swore in surprise. The Daedra was indifferent about Josephus' rather exaggerated swear, but nonetheless scowled. Well, it _looked _like it was scowling, since its expression never changed. In fact, perhaps it was holding its laughter. Or… scowling.

"You destroyed the Sigil Tower at Ganonah. My kin say you fought well." The dremora did a small bow of respect, but it did nothing except making Josephus squirm; he never spoke to dremora before, only _killed_ them. And this mention of Ganonah confused him, but he dared not mention it further.

He wished he knew what to say in gratitude for the honour of being praised by a dremora—whose kin was killed by him, and perhaps only him if what the dremora meant by Ganonah was any other Oblivion plane—and made things less awkward and embarrassing, yet did it truly matter? He nodded nervously, hoping it was the right action to take. And when the dremora did nothing, he thought it was only wise to be forthright. "I seek Mankar Camoran," he said, trying hard not to sound afraid. The dremora nodded in approval.

"You speak directly like one of my people almost. I'm glad I did not kill you immediately," the dremora replied in its demonic voice. _Damn. It thought about killing me. How can I _not_ be uneasy about this?_

Gathering his wits, Josephus stood straighter. It might be better if he killed the dremora first before it could do the deed to him. _If_ this creature was like any other dremora that Josephus faced many, many times before inside those damned Oblivion Gates. "_I_ am going to kill you."

His face paled when he realised what he just said out loud, what was just _meant_ to be inside his mind and _not_ proclaimed to the whole world, so indignantly and intimidating. _Where is your courage, Imperial? Show some backbone!_ He cleared his throat, grabbing the hilt of his sword to further prove his sentence. The dremora's face was, still, like before. Still indifferent.

He still wondered if it was laughing and hiding its amusement well.

"Like all mortals, you talk when you should listen. You will have your chance for battle, if you wish it," it said, eyes still locking with Josephus' green ones. His heart beat faster when the dremora mentioned battle, but why should it surprise him, truly? There will be many other battles before this could be finished. "My name is Kathutet, and I am chosen by Mankar Camoran himself to guard this path."

"I see," Josephus said, "And I need this path, now, do I?" His hand was still gripping the hilt of his blade, his palm hurting from the intensity of his grip, but he did not let go in case the dremora chose to attack him by surprise. He would not do the same mistake he did earlier. Josephus _cringed_ at the very memory of how he evaded his enemy and appeared weak in front of the immortal woman who had endured much worse than him.

"There is one way out of the Garden. I guard that path," it explained, "You will travel that path, and it will bring me honour to defeat you. But you shamed my kin at Ganonah. To bring you into my service... that would also bring me honor." Kathutet paused, raising his hands to show a pair of bracers which had a blood-like liquid trailing down its leathery texture. "These are the Bands of the Chosen. In order to pass the gardens, you must go to the Forbidden Grotto, and it will only open with these bands.

"So I offer you a choice. Would you confront me in battle? Or offer me service?"

Josephus considered his option carefully; there is a very fair chance he could make it out of this fight, but he will not be unscathed for sure. He _could_ choose to do the dremora service, but what if it would take him _days_ until the task he was required to do was complete? He could not risk wasting any more time. He lost so much already.

And... he wanted to atone for his lack of bravery fighting that Xivilai. Camoran must be laughing at that view, if he could see him now. _He needs to know I'm a threat to him. I will defeat him. First, I defeat his minion._

Josephus unsheathed the steel sword he had been tightly gripping. The shiny surface of the blade reflected the adrenaline in his eyes, and he grinned one last time before finally saying, "I choose battle."

Kathutet finally made a change in expression; he sneered, which made his already inhumane face more frightening. "Your mind follows the simple path, the choice of an animal. But you have courage, at least," it said, unsheathing its sword. When it waved its blade, a tail of fire whirled around the sword, adorning the blade. "You will fail, mortal, and then where will you be? Dead. And nothing."

"Not if I take the key from your corpse."

_Swing_.

Josephus made sure to stay quiet after that. No taunts. No battle cries. He only allowed himself to preserve his energy. Kathutet was a mighty thing, and his attacks were quick and deadly, much more than the Xivilai's. Josephus studied his enemy's tactics. Kathutet was driven by a rage and want of redeeming its downfall. Josephus was driven by the fact that he didn't want to seem cowardly.

Which was not so different, now that he thought about it.

_Swing_.

"You should do something better if you truly want me to fail!" Josephus shouted, an action that he regretted doing for his voice has not truly returned to him yet, after his foolish fights. His breathing was already ragged and he feared that Kathutet _would_ defeat him. With all the energy he could muster, Josephus swung his sword hard, aiming for Kathutet's chest, but it dodged him.

_Damn. Quick, small swings, Josephus._ He longed for his knives, quick and small. It felt different with a sword. He took a deep breath and thrust his sword with as small effort as he could, and that at least missed the dremora by inches. _Oh, Dibella, help me._

Kathutet kicked Josephus' hand, making him loosen his grip on his sword. He grunted and tried to kick back, but Kathutet was quicker, better. One thing after another, Josephus lost his footing and fell to the ground and barely managed to get back up his feet before Kathutet drove his sword to the dirt beside his head. _Shit shit shit shit shit._

The momentum of missing the shot made Kathutet weary, and Josephus did not waste that opportunity to close in on the dremora's head, hitting not with his blade but the pommel. The dremora fell down, but did not give up. It thrashed and kicked and its blade always met Josephus, now that he got the hang of Kathutet's fighting rhythm.

"Give up, Kathutet!" he said, when the dremora finally gained its footing. It charged at Josephus, but it was notably slower. "You're slower now!"

"A fine observation," it said casually, but when it turned around on Josephus, he noticed the blood streaming down its face from where Josephus actually succeeded in hitting him. _Even I didn't know that_. He felt a few of his ribs were broken, but nothing more to stop him for the night, to make a camp in this land he did not trust.

Finally, however, Kathutet ran towards him, and there was no better chance on ending the battle. Posing his sword for the offense, Josephus thrusted his sword into the dremora's stomach when it was an arms reach. With a gargle, the dremora fell backwards, looking at him with those eyes. Blood pooled around its corpse, but it did not stop Josephus from pulling off the bands from its wrists.

"I told you so," he said, putting his sword down beside the pool of blood, but then he spotted the bright orange light from underneath Kathutet's arm. The fire from the flame dimmed when Kathutet's life drained away, but when Josephus grabbed the hilt, it brightened once more. And it was remarkably lighter. "I'll be taking this, then, along with your bands. I'll say hello to your master for you."

**-~O~-**

Yeah, I suck at describing battle scenes. This is why I failed miserably the last time. Anyhow, your reviews and opinions are much thanked, especially criticism.

**alyssathecreed**: Thanks, I'm also working on expanding my vocabulary as you said without completely butchering the thesaurus. I guess that, comparing this with the old version, this one seems better... at least I hope so.


	7. Dawn Breaking

Author's Note: A bit later than my new pace, but ah well. I've quite nothing to say...

**-~O~-**

Chapter 6: Dawn Breaking

**-~O~-**

"Linne, wake up."

The figure underneath the sheets stirred, and moved, but showed no sign that it would sit up and get ready for a tiring day, quite what Niera would have expected, since this _was_ Linne, after all. She shook her sister's shoulder vigorously, but the only response she got was Linne's groans and a groggy, "I'll wake up later when the sun's up. Gods, Niera, what time is it?"

"It's time for you to wake up. We're leaving Cheydinhal."

Niera's tone was fortunately enough to wake Linne up, making her sit up so suddenly that she nearly hit Niera in the process. "What?"

"I suggest you get ready first, Linne. I'd prefer to go before dawn." Niera turned around and grabbed the pack she already filled with empty vials—just in case she would need to make the poisons on the road—and a small amount of dried fruit. And, of course, the recipe of the said poison from Lachance. Unexpectedly, she sighed. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she asked Linne when she turned around to her, "I was serious when I said we're leaving before dawn, or would you prefer I leave you here with no payment for the room?"

Linne got down from the bed and put on her boots, wordlessly. It was when she went to the footlocker on the end of the bed that she asked, "Why are we leaving again? Did someone suspect you... or something?"

Niera sighed and dropped the pack on the table in exasperation, "Linne, if I were to be discovered, I would never have reached this inn, would I?"

Her sister shrugged and finished putting on her shirt on top of her nightgown, and Niera wondered if that would be most practical... but if that meant Linne wouldn't have to waste time on the laces on her nightgown, it was best. Until, of course, Linne realised she wore shoes first before putting on her trousers.

"Linne, we're wasting too much _time_."

"I know, but I won't be long. Besides, what would require us to be so quick anyway?"

Gathering flowers, or rather, _herbs_, as Niera explained to her on the way. Once they were outside the inn, the only source of light was the torches on the streets, and the two guards stationed in front of the city gate. Linne walked a few distances behind from her sister, and if she wasn't so deep in thought, Niera probably wouldn't tolerate her being so slow.

When they neared the gate, the guards stopped them, refusing to open the gates for them. "What is your business to be out of town this early?"

Niera was gripping the strap on her pack, and Linne could see that even from under Niera's cloak, she was preparing a spell of some sort. It glowed in a bright green and orange light that when she brought her hand up the light was enough to show the guards' uneasy face. "Gentlemen, please, we really do not have time to ask such useless questions, do we?" she asked in a charming tone, and Linne realised what her sister was up to.

"S-sure, 'course, ma'am, why would we do that? To a beautiful woman like you, too! Jeff! Help me open this gate!" the guard on the right said, smiling at Niera so wide that Linne was ready to bet his face would rip off. When the man who was supposedly Jeff kept staring at Niera like an overly admiring suitor, his friend smacked him upside the head, "Oy, you still there?"

"Oh, right! Open the gate, we will. Come on, Troy!"

Linne suppressed the laughter bubbling inside her with a small cough, but Niera turned to her momentarily, and even in that split second she looked judgmental. The guards had opened the gate when Linne said, "Where are we going for these..." They went outside the city, "herbs?"

"Milk thistle seeds... they grow northeast of Cheydinhal. We could mistake them for Bergamot, and identifying them _could_ be easy for someone who mastered alchemy," Niera frowned, "Sadly though I know only enough to tell the difference between a poison and potion."

She took a piece of paper from her pack, and they walked in silence as her sister read it, until finally she said, "Fennel seeds are too far for us to get, that I know, but I'm sure some vendors could provide them for us, yet we have only enough money for you to stay in the inn for a week, no more, and only one person. That'd make... what, seventy septims?"

"Reagents cost more than that, I'm sure," Linne said, stating the obvious. Her sister kept reading the piece of paper, "What's that for?"

Niera recoiled and scowled, "I volunteered to help a friend making a poison for him."

"Why couldn't he do it by himself?" Linne asked, trying to keep her suspicious tone away. It was little use, however, because Niera turned to her and her scowl deepened. Even in the dark, Linne could see the disapproval in her eyes.

"He's very ill at the moment. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Sensing that she would not win an answer from her sister, Linne nodded and looked down at her boots, "What else could be used in the poison?" she asked, changing the topic of conversation. _Best not anger her._

"It lists other herbs that could be used for the poison," Niera confirmed, but there was doubt in her voice, "but where in Oblivion could I find Harrada roots?"

"Oblivion."

Niera looked at Linne with complete disbelief, "I beg your pardon?"

Linne sighed, "It's quite a long story, but I suppose I could retell it," she took a deep breath, "A few months ago, was it Heartfire? Maybe a bit after that. There was a man who claimed to be a member of the Knights of the Thorn who went into that Oblivion gate that appeared outside of town. Do you remember that?"

"Hmm... Heartfire? I believe I was on a contract to the Imperial City, to eliminate a prisoner. There _was_ a hellish looking gate I saw on the road. Black, large, and the skies surrounding me turned red and I heard thunder sounds..." she shuddered, "I quickly rushed through the area. Was that it?"

"Yeah, that sounds like it. I was in the inn when a man entered. His armour was battered, but the sigil on his chest—a sword with vines and thorns circling it—was still clear and he boasted on all the things he saw in Oblivion. I think he mentioned a plant that would hit you if you get too close, and he said it was Harrada," Linne explained in one breath. Niera looked astonished.

"That was months ago, and who knows if those gates are still open?"

Linne shook her head, "We've probably get news if those Oblivion gates are opened. Some talk in the inn said that those gates opened because of the Emperor's assassination in Last Seed. They could only close when the Emperor's heir lights the Dragonfires."

"The Emperor has no heir left," Niera said dismissively, closing the subject, "And we would get these Harrada roots."

They were at the stables, and the sun still hadn't peeked through the horizon. Only the guards having their patrol on the walls were awake now, but they were yards away. Niera still did not take chances and touched Linne's shoulder. "Be still."

She obeyed and a funny feeling swept through her body, and a green mist covered the two of them for a while before Linne saw Niera disappear... and so did she. She could only see her faintly visible form walking towards one of the horses inside the fence of the stables—Linne did not quite see her jump over the fence, or the gate of the stables opening. She followed her sister inside the stables and grabbed a white mare's reins and mounted.

It was a few years since Linne rode a horse. The last was when her father and she traveled to a farmstead that belonged to a friend. That was seven years ago or so. And she had her father behind her. Now, however, sitting on a horse was strange to her, even if the mare was saddled. She looked at her sister's shadow and saw that she was carefully, slowly, trying to bring the horse outside. Linne looked to the walls of the city, and saw that the men were nowhere to be seen. "Niera, they can't see us."

"They'll see the horses," her sister whispered, "Wouldn't it be strange if two horses without their riders suddenly gallop outside their stables? I thought so."

"It's dark enough for them not to see," she whispered back, but her comment was barely heard for the horse snorted, "And it was you who suggested we don't dawdle in the first place, am I right?"

Niera sighed audibly and looked around once more, and it was a few seconds before she breathed, "Alright. Be quiet, though. I don't want to take any chances."

Her sister gently kicked the horse's thighs and it began to slowly walk towards the open gate. Niera was still cautious however, and it showed the way she craned her head right and left for any signs of a watchful soul. "It's clear, you could follow now," she looked back at Linne, who was nervous enough about riding a horse, but when she held the horse's reins tighter, she felt a bit more in control and followed Niera, and as dawn approached, they were halfway though the Blue Road.

* * *

The sun was just peaking through the Jerall Mountains, casting a glow on the peak which blinded anyone who looked at the bright white snow even if momentarily. Martin strolled through the courtyard of Cloud Ruler Temple, where only a few Blades on patrol were up and running, and he spotted a Breton with cropped brown hair already swinging an Akaviri blade, though he had no partner to spar with. When Martin passed by him, the Blade bowed and murmured a polite, "My lord." No sooner than that, however, he continued to make a riposte thrust against the air, turning his back on the soon to be emperor.

_Emperor_. The title rang hollow without proof of his true lineage, no matter what Josephus might say to convince him that in fact Martin was truly a Septim. After all this time, the Amulet of Kings slipped from their grasp time after another; perhaps it was fate that he never becomes an emperor, if he ever was.

To make matters worse, he had already sent a letter to High Chancellor Ocato, the head of the Elder Council, requesting an audience with him as soon as the amulet was recovered. He wasted not even a droplet of ink to explain himself; even if it seemed strange that suddenly the High Chancellor—who was currently keeping the provinces together in the absence of a legitimate emperor, if Martin would remind himself once more—would receive a letter insisting that the late Uriel Septim had a bastard. A living bastard, if it made things better.

He stopped and admired the view overlooking the city of Bruma. The Great Oblivion Gate still stood in ruins outside the city walls, a reminder of the battle that ensued not even a fortnight ago. Martin did not want to think about that any further—what should be his main concern were the amulet and its searcher, Josephus.

For all Martin knew, Josephus—as skilled as he was—could be lost in the damned plane, or battling Mankar Camoran at this very moment. He wondered what the chances were if they finally get the amulet at all.

"Sir!" A voice suddenly called out. Martin turned his head around to find the source of the voice, and found Baurus, the Redguard who had sworn to protect Martin with his life. _So do the other Blades,_ he thought for a moment as Baurus neared, _but it seems that my father's death hit him the hardest._ "Are you certain you do not need to be escorted?"

Martin smiled, trying to comfort the unsure Redguard before him, "I am, Baurus. I will only walk across the courtyard, nowhere else. Surely it is safe enough for you?"

Baurus shrugged, "Well, sire, not that I'm restricting your freedom. It is all for your safety."

"Indeed," Martin assured him, "and you are doing your very best in protecting me. So far, there have been no assassination attempts." He did not know why he said that, knowing that exactly what he said was what Baurus failed in last time. The guilt was evident on his face, and Martin quickly said, "I did not intent for it to mean that—I shouldn't—"

"No, sire, it's fine," Baurus cut off, "it's only that Jauffre would go on a rampage if anything happens to you. At least let me walk with you, as a friend if nothing else."

Martin sighed and smiled once more, even though seeing through Baurus' lie, "Very well. It will be great to walk with a friend, once more." He continued to walk towards one of the watch posts, and he heard Baurus' armour clanking behind him. "I forgot what it feels like to walk freely for once, after being inside the Great Hall transcribing the Mysterium Xarxes for so long."

Baurus did not answer, which made Martin turn around and find that he was looking elsewhere. _It's even starting to look as if nobody listens._ "I understand you must still feel guilty about my father," he started, and Baurus' head quickly turned towards Martin and nodded ever so slightly, and he continued, "but what happened was the past, and it wasn't your fault that he..."

"I was one of the few Blades tasked with guarding the Emperor's life, sire," Baurus said, firm, "With my comrades dying in the escape route, it should have been clear enough a signal for me to pull back to the Emperor, but I didn't. I fought off the remaining Mythic Dawn, away from the Emperor. I shouldn't have—but you are right of course, sire. It is the past. We shouldn't dwell on it."

"I am glad you think so," he replied, and the conversation died down. From the watch post, Bruma looked even grander, even if he could not see anything too clearly. A few houses already had their furnaces running, and when he looked back he saw the sun was already separated from the mountains. As dawn broke, Martin Septim and his friend only stood there in silence, and only when the cold pierced through Martin's shabby priest robes did he turn to Baurus and said, "I think I have had enough. I shall return into the temple, if you need me."

"Then I shall follow."

The Great Hall was already buzzing with the Blades eating their breakfast, occasionally taking a sip of the mead in front of them. When one of them—Caroline—noticed that Martin entered, she stood up in respect to him, "Sire."

"Please, Caroline, sit down," he said, smiling at her. It was still an odd sensation, having people look your way and bow and respect you. In his days as a priest, the only sign of gratitude he received were words, sometimes promises left forgotten.

Caroline nodded, but kept speaking, "Grandmaster Jauffre summoned you into his room, sire. He says it is another matter to discuss."

_Again_. "Ah, thank you. I shall meet him immediately. Baurus, do help yourself to breakfast as I head to Jauffre's room."

"Very well, sire," he bowed low and sat down on one of the benches of the Great Hall, and it was barely a minute before he picked up on a conversation with another Blade.

Jauffre's room was only two steps away from Martin's own chamber, the one specifically reserved for an emperor should he need to stay in the temple. When Martin slid the door into Jauffre's chamber he was engrossed in a book, but abruptly closed it as he looked up at Martin. "You asked for me?"

"Yes," Jauffre's answer was short as he put the book down on a desk, which led Martin's eyes to look at the robe folded very neatly just beside a pair of shoes, and the purple silk and golden thread lining was visible enough for Martin to recognise its worth, its value. Jauffre confirmed his suspicions, "This was your father's robes, though not exactly. I've arranged a very skilled tailor to sew this according to the Septim robes. The material is not exactly as rich as your father's as the Oblivion crisis slowed a few merchants, but once this is over, we could arrange you a new one."

Martin looked unbelievably at Jauffre, and then to the robes at the desk and went inside the room to get a closer look, "Are you serious, Jauffre? It is good that you've prepared me a robe, and this one is fine enough. There will be no need in wasting even more septims on clothing."

When he traced his fingers on the material of the robe, he was entranced already, and he picked it up and held it at an arm's length. It was longer than he thought it would be, and he could trip himself in them, but otherwise, it was almost perfect. "May I take it with me into my chambers and try it on?"

"Surely, sire," Jauffre said, handing him over the shoes. The soles were tough boiled leather which was a luxury Martin was not used to every day. The most magnificent he ever felt as an emperor—a _future_ emperor, was when he led those men from all of Cyrodiil's cities into battle, against the daedra that spawned from the Great Oblivion Gate. To finally look as an emperor again...

"Thank you," he blurted out, "I don't know how you acquired such a skillful tailor, but thank you. I shall wear this and remember you, Jauffre, Grandmaster of the Blades."

**-~O~-**

I have nothing to say other than Martin's character is getting tougher and tougher to write each chapter and thank yous:

**Boys Do Like Girls:** You won't know how much your reassurance relieved me. The whole bad-fight-scene was because of my previous experiences in writing incredibly impossible moves that makes me cringe every time I remember about it. To know that the battle scene was great... huzzah!


	8. The Forbidden Grotto

Author's Note: A bit late, but bear with me a bit because this week I've been busy. However, I managed to complete this and half of the next chapter early—early in _my_ definitions, anyways.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 7: The Forbidden Grotto

**-~O~-**

It was a warm sunset, he decided. The sun was only partially visible now, sending shades of orange on the waves of the deep blue ocean. A breeze pressed a soft kiss on his skin. And before Josephus entered the mouth of the cave, with an excuse of a torch held in his other hand, the sun was gone. Paradise behind him was dark, and there was little he could see then, and so he pressed on into the looming darkness of the cave.

The throbbing in his head, no doubt a fever from his wound, only increased as he continued slow steps at a time. He blinked more than he should have, for the brightness of the torch was too much for him. And the cold of the cave; it was as if the gods _were_ cruel.

He was careful on avoiding the pools of water and stalactites, but it was still too much for him to form a single command for himself. Josephus was already weary, and a day had barely passed in this forsaken Paradise. _What a pathetic, useless scum I am. I suppose I couldn't avoid my death, however I prolong it. A cave as a permanent grave sounds nice..._

A small puddle managed to trip him, and he crashed down on the floor with his torch rolling downwards, even farther away. If he had the strength and willpower to, he would grab it and check his surroundings... unfortunately, he did not possess them.

Though, the dimness around him was a nice change from the obnoxious light of the torch. Maybe he could sleep for a while...

A low snarl sounded from somewhere in front of him, and knowing better than to risk discovery in his fevered state—however convinced of his death coming closer than he wanted—Josephus fumbled around, trying to drag himself forward through the ice cold rocks, to quench the torch. His adrenaline rush forced him to crawl, sending stabs of pain through his chest, but he pushed forward. The source of light was only a reach away.

He caught the wood and quickly threw the torch into one of the deeper pool of water. That was when he heard a scraping, like claws on rock, just a few feet away from him. _Damn. Just when I'm ready to end it all..._ He tried to back away from the creature, unclear in the dark, but the sound of its movements clearly screamed out _daedroth_.

_Brilliant_.

As silent as he could, he drew out his sword. The effort could have been easier if he was in a fitter state, but he did not care so long as his sword was in his hand. It felt heavier than before, though previously it was as light as a feather. A tail of fire snaked around the blade, dim enough for him to see the rocks in front of him, albeit only barely.

Then, he heard a humane voice that was neither Xivilai nor daedra. "Come out now!" the voice, a male, shouted, and Josephus' heart beat faster as he heard footsteps in front of him, getting closer and closer... "I know you're here!"

If he were to just lie there and do nothing, he would die. If he fights, there is a small chance of coming out alive.

_A smallest chance,_ a friend in the Thieves Guild would always say, _is still a chance._ He took a deep breath, trying to sit up. The effort itself was draining his energy quickly, but he murmured a word of prayer and stood up. The world went spinning as Josephus tried to balance himself on the uneven floor of the cavern. He groaned and with his free hand massaged his temples. It was burning, and the fact made him feel he would not make it out alive.

"I heard you!" the voice cried out, and Josephus heard it come closer. It was now or never, so he went closer to the walls, the shadows, and stood so still it felt comfortable. The coolness seeped into his back, and he allowed himself a few seconds of that before the light the source of voice was carrying went closer and closer. "There's no use in hiding—you will not survive."

He hoped years of stealing foodstuff from the market district back in his pre-adolescent era of life would still be useful in this matter. The man, illuminated by the torchlight, was wearing Mythic Dawn robes, a poor choice of apparel if he was to guard the Forbidden Grotto. Feeling relieved by this, Josephus emerged from his hiding spot and quickly lunged in for the Mythic Dawn's sides. The crimson of his blood was invisible compared to his robes. His eyes bore deep into Josephus', hatred burning inside them until they closed and he fell to the ground.

It was barely a second before Josephus went down with him, having no power to simply stand. He laid his face on the smooth surface of the rock. The fact that the man's corpse was only inches away from his own was lost upon him. The cold helped his fever cool down, even if a bit.

He sighed, knowing well that the empire's life depended on his own. It would be difficult to hide away the truth, especially a truth that had a meaning that deep. He had gone this far, into Mankar Camoran's own Paradise, and he could not fail this task.

Just in time, as if the man in question read his mind, Camoran's voice echoed throughout the cavern, _**"Do you tire already? The Champion of Old Tamriel, lying down to rest in my Paradise. A sad thing to know."**_

_You want to die, Camoran? You will. Soon enough._ His fury was fueled by Camoran's mocking. Despite nearly falling down again, Josephus managed to stand up, and take a steady step deeper into the cavern. There was an unnatural glow from _somewhere_ that showed his way before him. And soon enough he found out.

A river of lava.

There was nobody else inside the torture area of the cavern besides himself and a man inside a cage, chained to the roof of the cave. The chain seemed to hold up another cage, but Josephus looked down into the lava enough to know that while the man was safely held up in the cage, his fellow prisoner was not fortunate enough.

He tried not to think too much about it; he did not need a reason to be nauseous just after mustering the strength to walk. He did, however, try to find a way to cross the lava. There was a frighteningly narrow stone bridge just to his far right, and once he was across he was forgetting the torture mechanism and would never want to know about it again.

Fate, however, did not want it so. He spotted a man—an Altmer, by the looks of it—standing just in front of the opening to the next chamber. The only thought that occurred to him was, _Oh shit. I'm next_.

Stopping to unsheathe his sword, Josephus straightened and held his enchanted weapon in front of him, stopping the Altmer who was approaching him. Curiously enough, he did not seem to be in a hurry and did not draw his weapon... if he had one. From this distance, Josephus clearly saw that he was not wearing a sword belt. "I mean no harm," the Altmer said, holding his hands in front of him to further convince Josephus of his innocence. Still, the thought that the Altmer would push him down into the lava was very much possible.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" he demanded, his patience running thin as he pictured himself lying down on the bed of lava, "You could be working for Mankar Camoran—oh what am I saying, you're _obviously_ sent by Camoran to finish his dirty work for him, that cowardly piece of—"

"I no longer work for Mankar Camoran, if that is what you are saying," the Altmer interrupted. His brown eyes were scrutinizing Josephus' hands, and only now did he remember he was wearing those damned Bands of the Chosen in the first place.

Josephus scowled as he raised his hands in front of him, to show the elf a clear view of his wrists, "Here, if you wish to gape at them. Bloody things didn't even do anything." The Altmer looked curiously at them, and did not say anything else, which drove Josephus over the wall. "Take them, if they're valuable pieces of jewelry to you!" He reached for the clasps of the bands, his palm whitening as he put all his strength in trying to rip it off.

"You wear the bands, but you're no prisoner," the Altmer finally said as he straightened up again, and his voice was laced with curiosity. Josephus gave up on trying to take the bands off and cursed, but the Altmer paid no mind. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I'm having a holiday, that's what," Josephus put his hands down and sighed and thought for a while; would it be safe to trust this elf? So far, the only people he met in this plane were immortals who dreaded every second of their life, or the exact opposite, expecting Camoran to pay his end of his bargain of making them lords of Tamriel reborn. Then there were the daedra, if they could be called people. And that Mythic Dawn member too. Only one person stood up to what she believed in and risked her life for him. Could this elf have the same belief—that Paradise was a prison, a place that you were guaranteed a lifetime of torture despite its beauty—as that woman?

There was no harm in telling his main goal, but to tell him the how and why, was left to be known. "I'm here to kill your master, Mankar Camoran."

The Altmer's golden eyebrows sprung up in surprise, and mild disbelief, "Can you really do it? Can you really bring this eternal nightmare to an end?" _Then he is the same as that woman, thank the Nine._ The elf's voice was quieter when continued, "Can you defeat Mankar Camoran, and free the souls of the poor fools who followed him?"

Josephus had barely opened his mouth before the elf cut in, "Listen, I can help you. You _need _my help if you are ever to leave the Forbidden Grotto."

"Don't speak so quickly," Josephus replied, feeling his head spin the more the Altmer's words registered in his mind, "I would prefer to defeat Camoran with a functioning mind." He took a deep breath and released it, and then the realization hit him. "Why would you want to help me?"

The elf nodded at his question, but Josephus doubted he actually listened to his request, because the elf spoke in the same tempo as he did before, "I was at the sack of Kvatch. They had no chance; we carried them by surprise, and we carried the walls in the first assault. But they fought on anyway. Desperately," the elf shifted his feet, "They think this decadent, mundane world of theirs was worth defending."

"Because it was," he retorted, another wave of fury taking him. Thankfully for the Altmer it did not compare to the rage Josephus had for Camoran. He sighed and let the elf continue.

"I was slain after the battle was over, and I was told to look for survivors. Three townsfolk attacked me while they were hiding in their cellar." Now, it was the elf's turn to scowl, "They tore me to pieces, although I have no doubt my companions immediately killed them."

Josephus was about to say that he deserved that death, before he stopped himself from losing an ally. This elf showed up to help, and what kind of a man would Josephus be if he declined it? Besides, in this state, he needed an extra fighter to make up for his own pitiful inability.

"I've had plenty of time to ponder about my deeds since I came here. Ponder, and regret. An eternity of regret." The elf shook his head slowly, sadness etched in his face.

"Then how did you end up here, so depressed over it?" Josephus can't help but ask.

"For my weakness, the Master sent me here," he said, "To torture my fallen comrades who showed similar ingratitude for his _gift_ of eternal life." Then, his face brightened if only in the slightest, "I wish to redeem myself in the last seconds that Paradise exists. If you would truly succeed in doing your task, then my soul will be free."

_And so will that woman's, and every immortals trapped in here._ Taking him to have revenge on his master probably was the kindest thing Josephus could do to the elf. He put his hands on the elf's shoulder, "You will have what you ask for."

The Altmer smiled and nodded, "Thank you. There is little to tell about me if you would need my life's story for trust reasons. My name is Eldamil, and I am here to... torture the souls who were ungrateful for my Master's gift. There isn't much time that I can spare conferring with you, but trust me when I say that so long as you act like my prisoner, you would not be harmed."

_You mean risking getting encased in lava?_ Josephus only raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Do they know that Camoran expects me? We—_you_ could say that you caught me on my courageous quest through the grotto. It would explain my armour."

"I could tell them that. Follow me," Eldamil turned around to go through the opening, and there were torch sconces on the wall to provide light. Josephus squinted from the brightness of the chamber, but followed the elf, slowly and cautiously. His mind was screaming to himself that this seemed almost mad that he threw his life into this elf's hands, but if what Eldamil said to him was true, that he could help then it would be worth the trouble...

A dremora appeared from an adjacent room, two more following behind him. When his eyes met Eldamil's, and then Josephus', he scowled. "What's going on here? Who's this?" he demanded, raising his hand to stop his lackeys.

Eldamil looked to Josephus and showed disgust, "A prisoner, sent in by—"

"Show some respect, worm!" he roared, hitting the elf's face before crossing his arms, "Unless you want to end up in the cages with them."

The Altmer recovered quickly and did not even rub his red cheeks, "Yes, kynreeve, Sir. This prisoner was sent in by Kathutet for questioning. I was about to begin."

The dremora's face twisted into a questioning look, but did not stop scowling, "This is not one of Mankar Camoran's _chattels _from the Garden. Who is he?" He turned to look at Josephus, and he quickly looked down when he felt a shiver run down his back. Luckily, the dremora did not question the prisoner himself.

"Nothing escapes your vigilance, kynreeve. Kathutet wondered as well. This is why he sent him for questioning." Eldamil's eyes did not turn to Josephus, but even from his field of view he could see that Eldamil was worried that the dremora would not believe his story.

The silence was starting to make Josephus anxious and worsened his fever. He let out a breath that fell to deaf ears, for the dremora only responded with, "Very well then. Carry on."

Eldamil's relief was evident in his tone, "Of course, kynreeve." He then turned to Josephus and scowled, "Follow me, prisoner," he ordered with bitterness. If he was not informed earlier of the elf's plans, he would have fought back, but he only nodded limply and followed Eldamil back to the room with the cage. For a second, Josephus feared that he would be lowered into lava the moment Eldamil pulled a lever, and the cage that was deep in lava was pulled out. Once it was leveled with the floor, Eldamil went over, grabbing Josephus' hand roughly. "Come here," he said, and let go of Josephus as harsh as he could.

He undid the latches of the cage's gate and pushed Josephus in, and he nearly crashed with the unlucky former prisoner whose body was charred. Josephus' fear was not even pretend. The three dremora entered the room and looked at Eldamil with approval as he closed the gate shut. Josephus grabbed the bars and tried to reach Eldamil's hands to stop him from pulling the lever, but it was no use as he was lowered. He screamed as loud as he could, his head hurting because of such noise. He felt the lava licking the cage's floor and he had to hop from foot to foot if he didn't want to feel the heat.

Suddenly, the cage stopped. Deafened by his own screaming, Josephus could only hear the dremora's boots clanking as he walked away, and then the cage was pulled up once more. He blinked in disbelief at his well placed trust, and then to his ally when he could look at him.

"Open the gates on the other side, and meet me in the other room. We need to take care of Orthe."

_The three dremora, _Josephus thought quickly as he undid the latches just as Eldamil innocuously showed him a few moments ago. When he opened them and felt the cold rock beneath his feet, he nearly sang for joy but reminded himself not to be a fool, especially in a task so important like this.

Strangely feeling rejuvenated, he ran to the other room as silent as a thief would when one spotted a very rich man, holding fat purses of coin and other treasures. He gripped the hilt of his enchanted sword and felt such energy he never felt before. Before he knew it, he faced one of Orthe's lackeys and unsheathed his sword just in time to block a deathly blow, almost disbelieved at his own skill. He took care of the dremora quickly, and ran in search of his new found friend.

A bolt of lightning caught his attention as it struck something on the other side of the room Orthe left to. Eldamil was casting shock spells from one palm and then the other, never stopping until Josephus went to Orthe, who was already weakened, and kicked him and he landed on the floor, with what Josephus speculated a few broken ribs. One thrust of his blade, and it was done.

Another dremora ran inside the room in search for his friends, but upon seeing his master dead, and then Eldamil and Josephus staring at him, he wasted no time in running away. Eldamil did, however, channel a spell that even Josephus could feel its power and another bolt of lightning hit the dremora, and it fell down.

Fascinated, Josephus did not realise that Eldamil was now beside him. The Altmer looked paler, and was breathing heavily as a result of using so much magicka, but when Josephus wanted to speak, he only shook his head and quickly said, "The bands."

Wordlessly, Josephus raised his hands and watched as Eldamil casted a spell that wrapped the bands in a white glow, and then it finally broke free from his hands and fell down beside Orthe.

A bit of his headache lessened, his fever cooling down to merely a light-headed feeling, and he sheathed his sword with much better finesse than he did when his hand was wearing the tight bands. "This is a relief."

"Indeed it is. Shall we go onwards?" Eldamil walked towards a way that led to another part of the cavern, and Josephus vigorously followed. Mankar Camoran would be only a reach away at this rate.

**-~O~-**

Phew. I never thought I would manage to write this chapter, especially since half of it was never written before and since I couldn't play Oblivion—curse you computer and curse you constantly-crashing-engine—this chapter was difficult to write. But here it is. Here it _freaking_ is.

**NicciP1991:** Thank you! Hehe, Martin was starting to be hell to write, but it was fun. Glad you enjoyed it, and no worries, the story will unravel soon.

(Or, depending on my updating speed, not that soon.)


	9. On Oblivion

Author's Note: I actually planned to break the Florence Record of Fastest Update Ever and post this chapter just a day after the previous one, but alas, that's where writer's block helps. And then when I was ready to update, the internet decided it's time to stop working. Oh, woe is me, woe is me.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 8: On Oblivion

**-~O~-**

"Are we there yet?" Linne asked for the thousandth time.

"No," Niera answered for the hundredth time.

There was a silence that was broken only by the neighs of the horses before Linne mustered up enough courage to ask, "Are we there yet?"

"_No!_" her sister snapped, finally turning to face Linne who was beside her, "Damn it Linne, a thousandth time no! How many times _must_ I possibly repeat: no! Not now, and certainly not for days!" Her sister let out an exasperated breath and turned her attention towards the road again.

Another silence, broken only by the neighs of the horses.

Linne allowed her sister to cool down from her outburst before finally saying, "I was only trying to ask if we're going through the Heartlands. That's where most Milk Thistles grow. Their flower is light purple on the top. I'm guessing that we could try to locate them."

Niera abruptly turned to Linne and showed a face of complete disbelief that Linne had to hold her laughter, "How did you now that? You sound as if you've read the whole Elder Library."

"Well, believe it or not, I don't make trouble for a living. There were a few alchemists who dropped by the inn. Because of my _charming_ personality," Linne grinned, "they told me about some ingredients that grow nearby in case I needed to poison someone's ale with love potion."

"Love potions don't exist," Niera concluded, pulling her horse to a stop, "And those alchemists could have been tricking you. What were they like, even?" She went down from her horse and squinted to look at the distance. Linne followed suit, choosing not to answer her sister's question just in case she would get ridiculed even further.

She could only see a bit of it, but there was thunder and lightning on the skies far away. And the clouds surrounding it were more appropriate for, say, a sunset. It contrasted so much with the light blue sky. "I think that's an Oblivion gate over there."

"How could you be so sure?" Niera asked slowly, though Linne knew she _must_ be considering the possibility. She walked towards its direction to get a better view, and Linne was too late to grip Niera's hand to stop her. Her sister knew next to _nothing_ about these gates. Not that Linne could boast she knew everything about it. Just more than her sister did.

Which, if this was any other circumstance, she would greatly feel accomplished.

"What do you know about Oblivion gates, Linne?" Niera asked, not turning around from the gate. It was still far away, but Linne could feel the threat it posed even from this distance. So much that she nearly didn't answer.

It was probably a week ago or so in Mondas where she heard someone talking about a so-called 'Mehrunes Dagon', a Daedric god, and a few words flew by that he was the one responsible for this Oblivion crisis. It was a long time since Linne busied herself by venturing around town and visit the bookstore, so she was quite unsure if the talk she heard was true.

"I know that this gate was what destroyed Kvatch," she started slowly, waiting for her sister to turn around and point out it was obvious, but it seemed that this was news for her, "And that it could be closed, by taking some sort of stone—"

Niera turned to Linne and shook her head, "Oh, no, I'm not going to close it. I'm only going to take what I need and leave; run." Without waiting for Linne's approval, Niera went on her horse and led the mare to a gallop towards the gate leading to hell.

* * *

The sky was a shade away from blood red, lightning sparking every few seconds followed by the sound of the thunder. But that was not what made Niera's blood tingling, her Breton blood recognizing a form of magic from the Oblivion gate.

This magic, however, was dark. Even Niera, who knew nothing about another school of magic than illusion and its branching skills, could feel the power from inside the gate, from the planes of Oblivion that resided behind it. It took only a glance at Linne's face that she clearly disapproved of what Niera was about to do.

To be honest, Niera herself did not think it would come to this, that she would enter an outlandish land to get an ingredient for such a potent poison. A consideration to buy one from a 'supplier' quickly passed her mind once, but how could she acquire a payment for something so expensive? _No_, _Lachance trusted you and yourself to carry this through, and you must not disappoint. You must show your loyalty if you are to be raised to a higher level of respect in the Brotherhood... perhaps even the Black Hand._

The thought of such a thing was what made her heart beat faster and she turned to Linne completely. "Tie the horses' reins to those trees. I'm going in."

Her sister's eyes widened, "But... Niera, you don't know what to expect from whatever is through that gate—it even _looks_ dangerous. You can't possibly—"

"Linne," Niera cut her sister firmly, putting both her hands on Linne's shoulders, "Is your faith in my ability so little? I will be back. I'll return. And everything will be alright." That lie was what broke her heart the greatest as she watched her sister's face smiling, and for the first time in years, Niera embraced her sister. "We will return to Cheydinhal, and before you know it, everything will return back to the way it was."

"That sounds nice," Linne pulled away, and Niera put her hands back to her sides, "Please, be safe. I don't know how to explain to the stable boy how I managed to steal two horses singlehandedly."

Niera let out a small smile and ruffled her sister's messy hair. "You could always find a stay bow and some arrows, and scare him with missed shots."

When Niera turned away from her sister, she was already dreading what she had to do. Thinking of never seeing the world she called _home_ disturbed her, but she held on to the false promise she told Linne and ran inside the fiery arms of the Oblivion gate. As soon as she opened her eyes to the nightmare before her, she regretted everything she had done.

The dirt her feet were standing on—she nearly did not believe she was still alive—was a deep red that could only be darker than the skies above her, or the sea of magma that surrounded the island she was standing on. Island; because there was only a small bridge connecting to a mass of land that held a massive, proud tower made of the darkest ebony black stone Niera could ever land her eyes upon.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead, both from her own cowardice and the heat that enveloped the whole plane. When she put one foot in front of another, and found that nothing happened, Niera went on to search for this Harrada plant.

It was a few turns of the road when she finally spotted something that resembled red canes.

Niera stared at the plant before her. It was, like everything in this land, crimson, tall, but most importantly the tip of each branch was fashioned as a blade. She scanned around the area for any signs of anything dangerous, and decided that she was completely alone when she did not hear a cackling that belonged to a scamp.

She reached into her sword belt and grabbed the small dagger that Lachance had given her, its black surface reflecting her doubt. If there was anything that Niera learned when she was in Oblivion, it would be, _Don't trust anything that moves._

_Anything else that isn't moving shouldn't be trusted either._ Niera shook her head as she focused back on the hard-looking branch of the plant. What part would be classified as the most potent source of paralysis? Underneath, on the solid ground, she did not find a sign that these plants had any roots, as if it was glued to its place.

When she braved enough to reach out to touch its tip, the plant lashed out at her, its blade scraping through Niera's gauntlets. Though it managed to cut a thin line on her skin, it stung greatly. Her other hand searched for a poultice inside her bag, when she suddenly heard a cackling that sounded too close to her for comfort.

_Think. Think now, idiot!_ She looked around where she stood and found a huge boulder she could possibly hide behind. With only one step forward, however, something underneath her clicked and before Niera could realise what was happening, a bright explosion threw her back, and she landed unconscious.

When she came to, she felt small hands lifting her and suddenly she was supported by those hands. As the creatures under her walked, Niera blinked away the black spots from her sight before she opened her eyes completely and stared at where she was at, or more importantly, where she was being carried to.

Bewildered, Niera raised her head a few inches as she took in the hall. The walls were stone the same material as the gate she went through before, and the floor was a stone grey like a stormy, clouded sky. What frightened her the most, besides the fountain spurting out blood—or a red substance that was _not_ blood if Niera could allow herself to be optimistic—was the creature that stood in the middle of the room.

The scamps that were carrying her threw her body down to the cool floor and she closed her eyes, pretending to be dead, in hopes that the dremora in front of her would not do her any harm.

* * *

_Listener_, he began the letter, but found that he could not seem to write the next words. Lucien dipped the pen into the inkwell, and already put the tip of the quill on the paper, yet he wrote nothing. After a few seconds, he started again, surprised that the ink was still wet, _I have already raised a Silencer for myself and there was no trouble in trusting her. She will carry out the task of cleansing the Sanctuary with Sithis' will in mind._

He set the quill aside, and reread the small scrap of paper he wrote on. Then, he crumpled it and threw it away. There was no use of informing Ungolim of his Silencer's obedience. And there was no messenger he trusted enough to send this letter to him. Lucien stood up from his chair and paced around his fortress. There was nothing to do, and the continuing silence was gnawing on him. In other situations he would have welcomed the silence, but since this stillness was mocking him of his isolation from the world, for he could not risk any suspicion falling on him, and he detested it.

Only half an hour ago he thought about going to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, but what use would that make? The Sanctuary's members barely need any warning of this plan, and what if they disapprove of it? What if they refused to take part of this escapade? _Let the plan go into motion first_, Lucien thought, _and let them decide if dying because they were falsely accused of being a traitor worth escaping to._

He passed through one of the drawers and searched for his map. In the middle of the province of Cyrodiil, where the Imperial City was, he already marked a submerged ruin underneath the islands. Lucien himself was surprised when his sources told him of this ruin, since it was well hidden. But his sources were, of course,

Getting sick of pacing, Lucien sat back on his bed, counting as the seconds tick by, and waiting for the Silencer to report to him that the deed was done. She could never do the preparations smoothly, he was sure. There would be others who would be suspicious of the goings-on, what with their fellow members falling into a deep sleep—

_Or not everybody._ He suddenly remembered Vicente, a vampire, immune to paralysis. He slapped his forehead and cursed at himself; how could he forget? It was a hole in the perfect fabric of his plan. How would _he_ deal with _him_? Lucien considered if going to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary and confide with Vicente of his plans would even be wise, then wondered if Vicente was too much of a loyalist to go against the Listener's wish and then... then everything would be _ruined_.

He gritted his teeth and picked up another piece of parchment and scribbled a quick note, never stopping to make sure his choice of words were secretive enough. Lucien rolled the parchment and tied it with a simple leather band and went outside to the bright noon. He didn't bother with Shadowmere and only cast a chameleon spell on himself, running towards the city.

_She better be skilled enough for this._

* * *

"The Mighty Linne... no. That doesn't even sound sneaky," she talked to herself, watching the horses snort at her made-up title. Linne huffed, "I don't see _you_ coming up with better." The horse whined. "You're just a horse. Why am I talking to you?"

_Boredom, mostly. Or madness._ Basically, the last hour had been filled with boredom, heat and trying to find a nickname suitable for Linne should a tale be sung about her not very heroic acts, making every boy and girl in Cyrodiil stand in awe of her if she passed them by the market... or wherever.

Linne looked around at the road. There was nobody else except her and the two horses that were tied unto the thin trunk of a dying tree. Truthfully, anything around the Oblivion gate looked dying, or dead. The grass she paced on felt dry and sharp on the soles of her feet. She took off her boots ages ago; the heat of just being yards away from the gate was getting to the point where shoes would burn your feet.

Linne sighed and plopped herself down on the small patch of grass that seemed healthy enough. It had been nearly three hours, perhaps more, since Niera had been inside that bloody gate, and there was no sign she was getting outside quicker than what was expected by Linne.

"Where is Niera?" she asked herself, looking at the direction of the ominous gate of Oblivion. Surely she couldn't have…

_No. Niera faced much worse things than these and she will in the future… well, that's _very_ comforting_. Linne knew the merits of being an assassin, and the downside of it. At least, observing Niera's weekly rant about how guilty she felt at killing the designated target, explaining the nook and crannies of how the contract was fulfilled, there was a one out of three chance you could get caught. If you're not skilled enough.

Seeing that somehow after all these years Niera survived, Linne held on to the hope that the Oblivion gate was nothing _different_. Yet her mind reminded her that it, in fact, was very different than any ordinary contract. She shook her head in denial of the thought that Niera would not come out of the gate. _Think... happy thoughts._

Linne pulled her knees to her chest as she neared a tree, resting her back on the base. She realised that the dirt would do little against her clothes, and seeing that her trousers were a dark shade of brown, anyway, she found no problem in the though of sleeping on the dirty ground. She closed her eyes and a memory, almost out of nowhere, played in her mind.

There was a boy, a few years older than her, with the messiest crop of brown hair that Linne had even seen in her entire life, staring at her in disbelief after a day spent with her father learning a few names of plants that grew outside of the city of Chorrol. The reason he _was_ displaying that look was because Linne's clothing was looking worse for wear because of how dirty it was, with a few torn parts that her mother did not manage to patch up.

When he did not stop staring at her as if Linne had grown two heads, she walked up to him and pushed him to the ground. The boy looked more than just surprised—he was _frightened_ even. Thinking of that only made her laugh and then smile when she imagined that boy's face smile, too. The words that stuck out, the ones father used to say, was that in the instant that Linne offered the boy her hand to help him up, they became inseparable friends.

Niera was almost forgotten as she continued to think about the many mischief she had caused with that boy; chasing chickens, taking a chunk out of some neighbour's pie, but there was more that Linne could only get the feel of, yet never remembered.

Disappearing like a fog on a clear day, the memories vanished as the heavy feeling of never being completely at home again, with her mother and father, and that boy that she forgot the name of. There was only Niera, Cheydinhal, and what was happening now. _Chances are, you'll be completely alone if Niera never comes out of that gate._ Her eyes opened, and she did not realise the tears streaking down her face before it noiselessly landed on the base of her neck.

_The Might Linne does not cry_, she thought to herself as she furiously wiped her face, embarrassed that a girl grown like her would _cry_. "Niera would be out in no time. And everything will be back to the way it was."

**-~O~-**

Well, I clearly didn't expect the chapter to be this long. How miraculous.

**Boys Do Like Girls:** Thanks! Being told that I fleshed out characters so well was something I didn't get much, usually. I honestly do feel satisfied with the outcome of the last chapter (cue prideful, arrogant Florence).

**UlfricLovesU**: Thank you. Jessica, my sister, was Literally FRIST, while I _borrowed_ her account to post a rough version of Blood of the Septim and another fanfiction I forgot the title of. Anywho, your review is much appreciated!


	10. Carac Agaialor

Author's Note: And this chapter was supposed to be posted earlier, but I don't know why I even postponed the update.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 9: Carac Agaialor

**-~O~-**

When Josephus felt the cold breeze blowing against his forehead once more, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was one of the best feeling he had ever since he was in this damned Paradise.

"_**Well done, Champion. Your progress is swift and sure. Perhaps you will reach me after all,"**_ Camoran's voice boomed out once more, only this time, Josephus felt he was close. He opened an eye took one look at his new-found friend, Eldamil, and as if the elf read his mind, he nodded. _Of course I'll reach you, Camoran. I am, after all, the Hero of Destiny, as you said._ _**"You think I mock you? Not at all. In your coming, I hear the footsteps of fate."**_

"Truly?" Josephus muttered under his breath, opening both eyes. The darkness of the evening did not completely envelope the landscape. In spite of that, Eldamil murmured something and a bright orb of light floated above their heads. With a viable source of light, Josephus began taking short strides following the white stones that shaped a path uphill. "I don't think I hear fate when I walk, do you Eldamil?"

Eldamil only smiled and shook his head. "While Mankar Camoran despises Tamriel as it is now—well, the last time I saw it," he paused and his smile faltered, "he seems to view you a hero for your homeland. He sees you equal to his skills. He will count the seconds until you arrive in his palace, just through here."

Just after Eldamil finished his small speech, Mankar Camoran continued on with passion fit to be envied. _**"You are the last defender of decadent Tamriel, I am the midwife of Mythic Dawn; Tamriel Reborn. I welcome you, if you truly are the agent of fate."**_

"It shows," he said, touching the hilt of his sword with two fingers, "But will he be victorious, or us?"

There was no sound except for the whistling of the wind. Even their footsteps did not reach Josephus' ears when Eldamil finally frowned. "It will not be us; it will be _you_."

"I don't understand," Josephus shrugged, "It _would_ be us; _we_ will defeat Camoran—"

"But it is not _me_ who will claim the victory, Hero of Old Tamriel," Eldamil said stubbornly, and he put up his red hood to protect his face from the cold wind, even though Josephus knew it was to hide the elf's expression, "I will not be alive if Lord Camoran isn't."

Josephus sighed audibly, "If there is any possible way you could return to Tamriel, please, tell me."

Eldamil snorted, but did not reply. Josephus turned his head to look ahead, the light above his head dimming with every second. Only when it was getting evidently darker did Eldamil chanted the spell again, but did not say anything else.

The magnificence of Paradise was not hidden behind the gloom of night. There were glowing flowers that seemed to emanate from a small shrub, and there were white marble columns that circled around a statue of a terrifying figure. Josephus glanced at it and looked intently at it before turning to Eldamil, "Is that Mehrunes Dagon?"

"I believe so," the elf said, putting aside their last disagreement, "yet I have not the honour to see him in person. I hope I never will, if that is truly what he looks like."

A shiver ran down Josephus spine as he tried to imagine the figure walking across Cyrodiil, crushing tall watchtowers that surrounded the Imperial City, but his brooding—if it could be called that—was interrupted when footsteps not belonging to either him or Eldamil sounded from somewhere to the east. Josephus needed only look at Eldamil once, and the elf stopped. He followed suit.

"If I am correct," the Altmer said, barely above a whisper, "We are standing outside the gates of Carac Agaialor."

"Then you still have your senses," a woman called out from inside the gate. Josephus turned to look at the female Altmer standing behind the silver bars. Eldamil's light went out and it was dark for a second before the woman lit a few torches, some even out of her reach_._ "Are you here to betray my father once more," her brown eyes travelled from Eldamil's expressionless face to Josephus', who began to recognise her, "or are you here to bring in the _Hero_ of Tamriel my father speak so fondly of?"

Eldamil's eyes twitched and crossed his arms, "We've only come to your father, no one else."

"You do not even have a _sliver_ of worth to see him," the Altmer hissed, snapping her head at Josephus' companion, before turning to himself. When her eyes bore deep into his, there was recognition. And as Josephus remembered, Ruma Camoran sensed that. She chuckled, "You did not expect to see me again, did you? You have no grasp of the power that my father has at his command."

Eldamil put his arms back to his sides, anger evident in his tone, "The power that your father commands will not protect him."

"Did I speak to you? Forgive me if you were mistaken, though one should expect that since your decision of Lord Camoran's gift was definitely unintelligent," Ruma drawled, never taking her eyes off Josephus. She sneered, "Do you truly think you could stop us?Soon Mehrunes Dagon will walk upon Tamriel for the first time since the Mythic Age, and our victory will be complete."

"I am afraid that your dreams will not be granted," Josephus answered, but Ruma only rolled her eyes but stepped back and took out a key.

"Then your own foolishness will be your undoing." She opened the gate and turned around, and Josephus considered stabbing her back, but even before the thought was fully formed, Ruma only snapped back at him, "Don't even think about that. Your business is with my father alone, or was your jabber about something else?"

He scowled as deeply as he could when she turned her head back to the steps in front of her, and she lit a few more torches to truly illuminate the small palace of Mankar Camoran. Carac Agaialor was decorated with vine and ivy alike, a few leaves strewn about the stone of the entrance. It was surrounded with a small garden that showcased only few of the many floras found in Paradise, or at least the ones that Josephus found on his way.

Standing on top of the stairs, however, was also a familiar face. "Dear sister, I do hope I am not seeing things. _The_ Hero of Kvatch is here, with the lieutenant of _our_ attack who fell in the same city he was supposed to destroy? The irony of it all."

"What you see before you is real, Raven. However if you were careful enough when you _wanted_ to initiate him, otherwise you would have gotten rid of him sooner," she said with irritation, stopping beside him. Ruma turned to face the two men standing on the base of the steps, and Josephus saw how _hatred_ could make their face so similar.

Raven scoffed and took a step down the stairs and stopped just above Josephus, so that the Imperial would have to look up to see the Altmer's face.

"So here you are at last. The lackey of the Septim pretender. You still think you have a chance, don't you?" he tilted his head to look mockingly at him, "Well, I clearly did not expect you to make it this far, and to befriend our once most trusted member." He clicked his tongue as he turned to Eldamil, "Well, brother, if you fail to defeat my father with this excuse of a hero, then perhaps I could persuade father to lower your position to... a mere prisoner."

His cackle was what made Josephus' blood boil, and in that agonizingly slow moment, Raven turned around. His side was vulnerable. It was now or never.

_Now._

Josephus pulled out his sword in the instant, and before he could even form a sensible thought of why Raven must be eliminated—since he _would_ just go back to life not an hour after his death—his sword point met with his back. The feel was indescribable, to pierce through an immortal's soul. When Raven's body fell, Josephus got a clear view of Ruma, standing in shock, and momentary grief filled her face before she narrowed her eyes and glared at Josephus.

"What a complete waste of time. You could have saved that act of vengeance for my father."

Everything was a flash of fire and lightning, and steel against magic, destruction and restoration both. He did not know who cast the first offense; was it Eldamil's bolt of lightning once more, or Ruma's fireball? They narrowly dodged a telekinetic wave that brought a few pebbles and debris astray, though its force was enough to stagger Josephus that he nearly lost his footing. Eldamil quickly shielded themselves with a small ward, strong enough to hold a few of Ruma's telekinetic force before she was truly in front of them, and they had nothing to protect themselves with.

"My father would be most proud of me when I kill you," Ruma exclaimed, her hands fully engulfed with flames before throwing them in Josephus' general direction. While he missed, a bit of fire licked at his boots, which he quickly stomped off. Eldamil's spells were blocked by Ruma, who was supporting a telekinetic shield of her own. "Sadly, however," Ruma shouted from the other side of her shield, its buzzing drowning her voice, "Lord Camoran would like that honour for himself."

"What a selfish twat, then," Josephus was swinging his sword in his hand, trying to regain the energy to move his feet; he did not remember anybody casting a paralysis spell. "If he would like to kill me, perhaps he should have done so now."

Ruma's shield died out and everything went back to fighting. Ruma's fury seemed to power her spells, for even now Eldamil was drained of his magicka, and Josephus was sweating like a pig in spite of the breeze of the evening. They cannot win.

"We could have settled this the nice way," Ruma said, driving out the two men with bolts of lightning aimed at their feet. _I suppose she was serious when she did not want to kill us._ He was about to yield when a shock traveled through his nerves and he felt his body shaking. "But I am considering the option of killing you now, saving my father the trouble. Oh, his wrath is worth it if that would mean I could kill you."

And that very second another bolt of electricity hit him, and his heart felt like it was trying to rip out of his chest. There was no other option other than the one his mind was shouting at him—or was that his thief instinct, long buried in the depth of him?

Josephus shared a small look with Eldamil before running through the gate. With no idea where to run, and no source of light in the darkest moment just before dawn, he only tried to escape to save his own hide. He did not even turn back to see if his friend made it out alive. He ground his teeth as he remembered that day in the inn, where his friends left him selfishly, left him when he needed support the most.

* * *

Flames did not remind him of Bruma and the battle that took place in the valley of always winter, but he saw destruction. Martin continued to stare at the flames and felt the heat dancing inside of him, a part of his soul feeling confident in his friend who was in Paradise. His friend who would reunite with him once more. His soul called for the Amulet of Kings.

It was a few hours following noon, and after his brief meeting with Jauffre just this morning, Martin had left his robes signifying his duties back in his room, to wear when Josephus returned with the Amulet of Kings. Martin rested his forehead on his palm, his arms supported on his knees as the fire went out of his view, but he still felt that indescribable warmth inside him.

The chatter in the Great Hall continued in flat, dead voices. Martin's most trusted Blades sensed their Emperor's gloom—for lack of a better word—and refrained from speaking loudly. One who chose not to speak at all was Jauffre, sitting right beside Martin.

The elder was not truly summoned or invited to join him, but Jauffre had already grabbed a chair and sat alongside his Emperor. Martin did not protest of this and let the Grandmaster be. _He is not bothering me,_ he reasoned, _and it is wrong to decline his company after the gift he has given me_.

"Should anything fail," Martin started, with no purpose of conversation in mind, "will all of this be for nothing? Will Mehrunes Dagon truly win against Tamriel?"

Martin did not even need to turn his head around to find Jauffre frowning in disdain. "Josephus is a skilled fighter, Your Majesty. He will return to us with the amulet."

He continued to cradle his head, wishing for the damned wait to be over and for Josephus to suddenly return, exclaiming, "I've done it! I defeated Mankar Camoran's arse once and for all," only because it seemed like the thing his friend would say. The thought would have made Martin smile, but even the small encouragement did nothing to him. His composure could be held for so long before he had to burst.

The soon to be Emperor only sighed, "I am afraid you did not truly hear what I said, my good man. Only if Josephus does not return with the amulet... it means certain doom for us all. And Dagon will not allow any survivors."

"For a moment, my lord, I ask you not to think such things," was Jauffre's counsel, and finally Martin dared a peek at the old Breton's face, "Only to focus on present matters. My Grandmaster used to tell me that. To worry about what-ifs, and ones that seem terrorizing, why, then we might as well lose our minds."

Martin finally let go of his face, exhaling heavily. "You are correct, of course, my friend. I shouldn't have said such things."

"It is all fine, Your Majesty," Jauffre, however, did not dismiss the topic, "Besides the matter of Josephus not returning, there is no reason for you to isolate yourself from the world."

"There is," Martin started slowly, "There _are_, actually. One is that I am a bastard son of Uriel Septim, the second is that Ocato has yet to reply on my letter, explaining my claim to the throne." This all made Martin realise how weary he was while it was not even dusk yet. "And there are still an abundance of problems that I must resolve when I become emperor."

Jauffre sighed, "You are not the only illegitimate emperor to claim the throne. There are many recorded by history, and some were well received by the people."

"I've found none of their names in the books I've read, so far," Martin said, exasperated. "An emperor so loved by his people would be important enough to note, wouldn't he?"

The old man sighed once more. Even Martin himself was tired of this. "Yes, there was Calaxes Septim, another bastard son of your father," he explained, "While his life was not glorious, nor was it well loved, yours could be. You could be a change in the empire."

Martin mustered a small smile before standing up, "I hope that task doesn't fall on me alone."

* * *

The only indicator that a day has passed since he had been in this Paradise was the fact that he was starving, and the sun was beginning to rise, if only a bit. Josephus was struggling to find his way back towards Carac Agaialor. The various plants that previously provided beauty were only obstacles for him that he must go through. If not, they were hiding places from the daedroth that wandered throughout the land.

His guilt had replaced every other emotion in his person; there was no fear of being caught, but guilt that if he was caught he would not be able to finish what he was originally supposed to do in this damned Paradise. He did not even feel his sickness that, in other circumstances, could feel like it was killing him slowly. There was only guilt.

_I should not have left Eldamil to fend for himself._ He took a deep breath as he pushed a branch out of his way. _It was selfish of me. And I promised him that I would defeat Mankar Camoran, for him and for everybody here._ Yet all he did was run, escape, avoiding his death. It was hypocritical of him, but now nothing can be done except to find Carac Agaialor and finish the deed of killing Camoran, ending this nightmare once and for all...

A twig caught his foot and he tripped. The effort of standing up was almost impossible to accomplish, so Josephus only stopped at sitting. His stomach grumbled, but he was dead set on finding any sign of the path he ran through when he left Eldamil. Josephus took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and finally tried to stand up. He left before his guilt would crash unto him and he would break down.

* * *

"Get up, human," the dremora growled. Niera felt that she count herself lucky that she was not immediately killed. "What do you think you were doing, entering an Oblivion gate empty handed?"

She did not speak for fear of choosing the wrong words to say, but the dremora was only angered by this, so she blurted, "I-I was lost in the forest and—"

"That is not the answer I seek," the creature drew his blade, but Niera was already running the opposite direction. She was going down, and through a dark hallway, when suddenly spears jolted from the walls. Niera would have been dead by now if she did not stop immediate, her face only inches from the point of the death trap. Her eyes wandered down and found a lock of silver blonde hair on the ground. The spears slowly went back into the walls, and it was invitation enough for her to continue running.

_I have no weapon, I only have this leather armour as protection, and my supplies are gone._ She stopped when she was at the end of the hallway, three black doors facing her. Niera stopped to catch her breath first, and looked back to see if the dremora was following her.

And he was. Wasting no time, Niera burst out of the door on her right and met with the interior of the spiraling tower she spied when she was _outside of it_. The stone was cold beneath her feet despite the heat outside. In the middle of the tower was a red beam whose source was a round stone at the very top of the tower. Hearing the door open behind her, she sprinted to a door on an upper level, and saw no connection of the stone ramp with another door on the higher level. Going down would mean going back inside that damn hallway.

She had barely caught her breath when she entered a corridor with skin—whether daedric creatures or human skin, she did not want to know—as walls and a strange flooring. Right in the middle of the small corridor was a fountain squirting out clean water. It _looked_ clean, at least, and Niera neared it enough to open her glove and wash the hand which was hurt by the Harrada plant. The water stung for a while, but the cool flow of it seemed to wash off a bit of the pain, if that made any sense. _All of this certainly doesn't._

Niera had no means of drying her hand, so she only put her glove back on. The water calmed her enough that she felt a tingling inside her, the magicka of her Breton blood ready for use. She took a deep breath and shrouded herself in a chameleon spell. The least that could happen was that she was discovered, should the spell suddenly wear off.

She traveled through the winding corridor in fear that somehow a daedra would emerge from nowhere and flay her, but when she found a small doorway leading towards the beam of light once more, there was relief and disappointment as well.

She had no idea how to get down without attracting the dremora's attention. If she were to the hallway, and all the way down, she didn't know if she had enough magicka for a long duration of chameleon. Dying was, of course, out of the picture.

Niera was certain that the beam was upholding the tower. She could feel some of its power ringing in her head. And judging by the strange architecture of inside the tower, it was impossible it could be supported by itself. Perhaps if she stopped the beam, somehow, she could return back to Cyrodiil without having to go through hell.

And hell was still an underestimation.

**-~O~-**

I don't think this chapter's title was fitting for its content, but hey, Josephus _technically_ reached Carac Agaialor. That's one of my finest logical moments there.

I am very sorry if you were expecting Josephus (bloody hell that name's getting harder to write by the second—maybe I'll choose to refer him as Joey in future Author's Notes) to kick some butt, namely Mankar Camoran's, but you didn't get that in this chapter. The timeline is starting to become what I'd call a hamster cage: you pay attention to only one—Joey's chapter, in this case—and almost forgot about another hamster, and it escapes and boom, things just go wrong.

I'm rambling. The text above is not a necessity to read, but here's the too long didn't read version: OH WOW I NEED TO WRITE A BALANCED STORY.


	11. Going Back Home

Author's Note: Writer's block must be the main problem with this chapter's lateness, but some of it was partially blamed on my own laziness and a few of my friends who were stubbornly set on catching up with me. A bit scary, now that I think about it. I haven't seen my friends from school in days. But I'm rambling.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 10: Going Back Home

**-~O~-**

The spell wore off just a few more steps away from the black round stone that floated inside the beam of light. It seemed like the source of the light's power, actually, now that Niera examined it closer. The humming of magic increased the nearer she got to it. However, she could not stay and gawk too long before she heard a snarl and knew that something had spotted her. And she had no idea how to outrun this enemy.

Niera was not an able mage of mysticism, and it was difficult—impossible, even—to grab the orb telekinetically. She thought that even if she _were_ a mystic, the orb would have some sort of enchantment to be unaffected by magic. She heard the growling sound again and tried to form a plan. She did not have enough power to muster a chameleon spell. Going back to the fountain was suicide.

She was running out of choices.

Gasping for air, Niera braced herself for the worst and ran towards the orb. When she crashed against it, she fell down to the floor with the stone underneath her and she looked back at the beam of light that disappeared, and for a second Niera feared she did nothing to help her cause and only made the source of the growling angrier, but then a bright light engulfed her vision.

_I suppose I should never have went inside._ A muffled voice inside her head shouted her name and

When the light was gone, the Oblivion gate behind her crumbled in the darkness. The orb held tightly in her hand drained the rest of her energy away.

* * *

The scamp looked puzzled when it looked back at the gate, and it was opportunity enough for Linne to appear from behind the boulder she was leaning against. With all her strength, she struck the creature's head with a heavy jagged stone and it fell down with a thud. Taking no chances, she struck it over and over until she was sure it was dead.

After the umpteenth time of doing so, Linn was assured that the scamp will not, in fact, come back to life. Her head then looked up towards the ruins of what was once the Oblivion gate and she stood in awe in front of it before remembering that her sister was inside the gate. Or once was.

"_Niera!_" she cried out, refusing to believe her sister was gone. She frantically ran around the rubble, moving piles of rocks in hope that her sister was only hidden underneath it all. "Gods, Nine, Sithis, Night Mother, please, _please_ let her live..."

A body lied limp on the ground, clutching a perfectly round stone in one arm as another covered its face. Linne sprinted to where she spotted her sister and immediately took her hand to check for a pulse. A faint one, but it is one nonetheless. She hadn't much time, and there was almost nobody else on the road. For a second, Linn nearly gave up all hope before Niera finally mumbled something. Her pulse was getting stronger, even if still weak.

"The... the stone..." was what Linne could interpret her sister talking, but she didn't understand what needed to be done with the stone. She tried releasing Niera's grip on it, and did so effortlessly, but dropped it as soon as its heat licked her fingers. She hissed in pain, wondering what in Oblivion that stone was supposed to be.

Niera seemed to breathe heavier now, as if tired. Her hands lifted a few inches from the ground and her dried, cracked lips moved even slower than before. "Water," she simply requested. But there were no bodies of water nearby where they were. And after all Linne could not possibly carry her sister on her back, and decency did not allow her to drag her sister by the arm across the distance towards the Lake Rumare, if they were anywhere on the Red Ring Road.

"Niera, we don't have water—what happened to the water bottle you brought?" Linne hurriedly asked, pushing away a few strands of dirt covered hair from her sister's face. She noticed the bruise on her forehead, and then the scars that lined her arm where her armour ripped off when Niera held up a hand to silence her sister.

All she simply asked was, "Water."

Seeing no other choice but to comply, Linne sighed. "Can you walk? Hobble?" Niera nodded in response, and tried to put half of her weight on a hand in an attempt to sit up, but failed. Linne grabbed her then, helping her to at least properly sit against a larger boulder that used to be the Oblivion gate. Niera let out a huge breath, even though she was still panting. "What should I grab the water with?"

Niera winced when she spoke, "One with... the horses."

"I'll be back soon, then," she scurried away, though still doubting that Niera had packed such a thing on the horses. For if she remembered correctly, Linne had been the one to watch the horses snort and eat grass and snort again for half a day, but she was the one that judged too quickly. A small pouch was tied to Niera's horse—it may as well be invisible—and inside was a few vials and a mortar and pestle.

Thinking twice about grabbing the largest vial, Linne made a run towards the small group of trees that lead towards at least a small portion of Lake Rumare. She was careful on not tripping over a few stones and tree roots, but at the same time valuing time and was running as fast as she could.

It was getting darker by the minute, and when Linne finally found the lake, she was nearly stunned at the view of the Imperial City, mostly the White Gold tower that was reflected on the murky waters of Lake Rumare. The moon was blocked by the glorious tower, but its light shone brightly in the early evening. It was difficult to tell the time when the sky was red nearby Oblivion, but she realised that the sky around her was ebony with white twinkling stars.

Linne figured she lingered long enough and went to kneel in front of the lake, bringing the vial's mouth into the water. It was not the safest drink Niera would have, especially in her state, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Linne took the vial out and examined it, thinking it was clean enough to be drunk. When she sipped the liquid, however, she spat it out in the instant. It was _terrible_.

But indeed, beggars can't be choosers. Niera needed water, and if it meant water that tasted of wet dog and its shit, she'll be getting just that.

Biting her lip, she went back to the horses with ease despite the gathering darkness and over to the ruins. Niera had her eyes closed, her hands resting limply on her lap. One would think she was dead if not for her ragged breathing, which Linne was grateful for.

She shook her sister's shoulder as gently as she could. "Niera, I've got the water you asked."

Niera opened an eye slowly, and her gaze turned to the murk water held inside the vial that Linne was holding in front of her sister's face. If the view itself was enough to disgust Niera, then its taste would. Fortunately, the fact had some sort of force on Niera so that she sat straighter and took the vial without a single wince of pain.

In goes the water, out the next second. Niera's face was contorted in irritation, and she held the vial away as if it would help remove the taste from her mouth. Linne only smiled nervously. "This is disgusting."

"This is water," Linne said, taking the vial from Niera's hand. Her sister rested her head on the boulder some more, before trying to push herself to a kneeling position. It was improvement enough that she was able to do so. "Do you think you're strong enough to ride?"

"I hope so," Niera said, closing her eyes once more. Her eyes twitched, but she did not say anything else for a moment until she finally turned to look at Linne's general direction, "Get the horses."

Linne's eyebrows rose. "We're leaving already?"

"Not truly going back to Cheydinhal," Niera said, a bit of sadness in her tone, "but we're going back to our original plan. I hope you know how to distinguish milk thistle and bergamot."

She nodded quickly, though unsure she could follow out her sister's second order, and looked back to see Niera holding the round stone in front of her. Her fingers did not seem to burn like Linne's did when she touched it.

* * *

When he broke the branch that covered his way, the view that greeted Josephus was the marvelous gate of Carac Agaialor. The white stone of the palace reflected the early morning sun's light, making Josephus squint to see the two persons standing atop the staircase of Carac Agaialor.

"Well, well, brother. Look who has returned," remarked Ruma upon seeing Josephus walking through the gate. "It seemed that the idea of dying is terrifying to him and so he flees from it, leaving his friend behind." Now that Josephus was near them, Ruma was clearly holding Eldamil's shoulder quite tightly, the latter kneeling down with his hands bound behind his back. He did not look up to see Josephus.

"Oh, yes, the cowardly hero came back to embrace his destiny," Raven chirped, his drawling tone driving Josephus on edge, but he knew that he must keep his sword hand at bay, for he did not need another delay in facing Mankar Camoran. "If you are done doing heroics, perhaps now you will see father?"

Josephus nodded once. "Release Eldamil first, if you so please."

"If we so please?" Ruma chuckled, "Such manners one acquires after escaping death."

"I'm serious," Josephus said, firmly. "Release him."

"You cannot order us, Imperial," Raven stated, and lifted Eldamil roughly by the shoulders. "We do as we please. Walk, prisoner." His sister pushed Eldamil hard on his back, making him stagger before regaining his stance and continued on his way to Carac Agaialor. Raven stayed to make sure that Josephus followed them.

When Ruma opened the stone doors of Carac Agaialor, Josephus was not quite ready to face its beauty. However dim the lighting was, there was an unnatural yet eerie blue glow emanating from the walls, shining a light upon the throne that Mankar Camoran was sitting on. As he continued walking, Raven closed the doors behind him and his father looked up to meet Josephus' eyes, and a manic grin spread through his face.

_More crazy from the Camoran family_. "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel," he said, standing up and opening his arms as if for an embrace. _As if_. "You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of lost hope."

Josephus shook his hand. "No. There will be no new Tamriel, for the old one will stay. Your so-called _god_ would not succeed."

"How little you understand!" Camoran all but exclaimed, grabbing the staff that was leaning over his throne and for a moment Josephus thought he would strike the Imperial with it, but he only continued, "You cannot _stop_ Lord Dagon! The walls between our worlds are crumbling; the Mythic Dawn near with every rift in the firmament," he shook his head as if in awe, "Soon, very soon, Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again! The world shall be remade! The new age shall rise from the ashes of the old."

Mankar went down a few steps from the platform that supported his throne, staring into Josephus' eyes that it was certain the world was lost upon them. "My vision will be realised; weakness shall be purged from the world and mortal and immortal alike shall be purified in the finest fire," he smiled wider with each word, his knuckles growing white as his grip on the staff tightened. "My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery."

"No, it is not. The last Septim is still alive."

"But the Amulet of Kings is mine," Camoran whispered, walking towards the center of the palace hall, and Josephus turned to watch as he stood proudly a few yards from his reach. Eldamil was standing between Ruma and Raven, far on the side of the stone steps leading to the upper balcony. It was between Camoran and himself. "And the last defender of the ragged Septim stands before me, in the heart of my power."

"Then let us see who at last has proved the stronger, Camoran," Josephus said, his voice echoing in the now quiet palace.

He took a deep breath as the truth of his words sunk in, and Camoran nodded before suddenly casting a blast of flame at his direction. Josephus leapt to his right, to where the two siblings were, and they were shocked to see him there, in the process of standing up. Before they could have readied themselves, Josephus ran his sword into Ruma's gut and did not wait a second longer before cutting a slash through Raven's chest. All that was left was Eldamil, and he was watching with eyes as wide as saucers before turning around and letting Josephus cut the cloth that bound his hands.

When the turned fully towards him, Josephus could see the hatred in Eldamil's eyes, but he did not say anything. Josephus would have been desperate if he apologised then and there, asking forgiveness for the abandonment he did to the elf. However, it was only Camoran who spoke, breaking the two from their staring match.

"You intend to have my most trusted agent used against me?" Camoran shouted, forming another ball of fire in his hand, "Treachery is a bittersweet thing, Eldamil. Have you forgotten how this hero of yours left you to die, in the hands of my daughter?" He chuckled darkly, but never looked away from the Altmer. "Do you truly regret this gift I had given you? Eternal life, never dying, in this Paradise no less."

Eldamil scowled, "What use is living forever if I live with sorrow?" Josephus contemplated now was any time to strike Camoran, but he still stood there, listening. "How many more promises will you give until we truly face the truth, that there will be no Tamriel Reborn?"

"Oh, but that is the thought of a dying man, Eldamil. Think of the rewards Lord Dagon would grant you if you kill the Septim's errand boy, the only thing separating us from the goal we have been striving to achieve."

The two Altmer looked at each other for a long moment, and Josephus feared that Camoran's words, and add his own fault at abandoning Eldamil to die—for lack of a better word—he was truly considering Camoran's offer. _But he cannot,_ he reasoned, _he has lived long enough in this world to know of the torment that he will go through should he accept._

Eldamil cast a small bolt of lightning at the black-haired Altmer, so quick that Josephus himself was surprised. "No promises would ever win me, Camoran," he said, casting another bolt, but this time Camoran blocked the impact with his staff, which absorbed the magic, "Eternal life? Lord of some hold with power to be envied? No, Camoran, everything must end. But your life will end first."

Camoran cast the fire bolt at the two's direction, and even with dodging it, Josephus felt the heat through his armour and going up to his back. "Very well, you ungrateful bastard. I should never have spared your life if you planned on betraying me!"

Eldamil pulled out a knife and aimed towards Camoran's chest, while Josephus was climbing the stairs to avoid any of their spells. Eldamil was only keeping him at bay, he was sure, and while dealing no real damage, it was all that Josephus needed as Camoran began to chase him. It was all very quick; Josephus turned back, found the Altmer with his wooden staff pointed to him, and so he swung his sword, nearly snapping the wood in two. Again and again, but to no avail; the staff was enchanted. _Of course_, he thought grimly. He turned and continued to run as he felt magic enveloping his body in a warm shield.

"The hero runs from his enemy? Such _heroism_," Mankar taunted, and Josephus nearly missed the lightning that could have hit his head, if he did not duck when he heard the crackle. "Face your death with some courage!"

Enough was enough. He turned with all his strength in his swing, and it left a horrible mark on Camoran's arm. Blood seeped through his blue robes as he hit the Imperial with such a brute force with his staff. It knocked Josephus backward, and for one mad moment, he had the thought that saved his hide from getting roasted. He jumped down and joined with Eldamil, and though his feet could have broken a few bones, it was better than burning alive.

Eldamil was casting a few more destructive spells, oft times missing Camoran. Josephus did not have a tactic in plan, but he could sense that Camoran's magicka was running low as he refrained from casting anymore spells. "Tired already, Camoran?" he called out, a grin in his face as he ran towards the stairs. Camoran snarled and tried to cast a spell on himself—gestures and all—but there was no effect.

He was out of magicka the time Josephus was in front of him. He side-stepped Camoran's thrust, and kicked him at his bleeding arm. The Altmer lost balance. In that split second, Josephus took hold of the amulet's string, catching Camoran before he could fall. He spotted Eldamil, somehow so distant, though he was only down there, where Camoran would be if Josephs let go of the amulet. "I guess," he said, grabbing the sword he laid down beside him, "that your duel with the Septims is truly over."

When the string was cut, Camoran fell down to a miserable heap on the floor. Josephus jumped down, feeling the pain in his legs again when he did. The Altmer was trying to push himself up, so Josephus lowered his face to Camoran's view. He said only a few words, "You may have stopped me... but not Lord Dagon."

He gasped out a loud breath, and death took him swiftly. A few moments were quiet, before Josephus felt the shake underneath him. The walls were crumbling. Above him, a piece of the ceiling fell. He ran towards where Eldamil was, but only found him on the floor, also dead.

There was truly no way to save him. In the short moment he knew Eldamil, Josephus knew that the elf could never do any wrong if he was not a Mythic Dawn. He could have had a better life. When he realised that he was grieving for a man he barely knew of—he did not even know his mother's maiden name—Josephus was standing on top of where the portal to Paradise once was, and the view that greeted him was a circle of Blades and in the midst of them, standing in front of the fireplace, was Martin Septim, wearing grand robes fit for the Emperor himself.

There was no word between them as they were all surprised at Josephus' return, so it was upon him to break it. "I've done it," he brought the amulet up in his hands, "I defeated Mankar Camoran's arse once and for all."

**-~O~-**

Either I got Camoran's character _slightly_, _very_ wrong, or I did not understand him completely. He is, however, such an awesome villain that I never got bored of killing him in-game. Ah, memories...

(cries because she can't play Oblivion again)

But honestly, I keep doing it again! Not updating for a long time, I mean. I don't even know _why_ this time. _Gah_.

**CheySkywalker**: Thank you for the review! The reason I keep claiming that the story was not exceeding my expectation at times would probably be because of some self-esteem issues. I suppose the 'my-story-sucks-so-bad' attitude isn't showing _that_ much... But, anyways, I sort of agree about Lucien's character—it was difficult at first to write him, and I made second thoughts about actually including him as a point of view. Again, thank you for the thought; it helps!


	12. The Dark Brotherhood

Author's Note: I actually had fun writing this chapter. I don't know if it's my fascination with the Dark Brotherhood and how I love giving the members a slightly twisted character than original, or something else. Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

(P.S: Biggest apologies if Antoinetta's just too much in this chapter. I've yet to figure her out completely)

(P.S.S: I didn't want to say it but here it is anyway: this story reached a thousand views a few days ago! I'm so happy and scared at the same time)

**-~O~-**

Chapter 11: The Dark Brotherhood

**-~O~-**

Cheydinhal was a relief to see if you've been searching for flowers in the darkening afternoon. Linne thought there would be no end to their gathering of Milk Thistle, but was surprised when Niera had nodded at her direction and lead their way to the horses. It was not a long ride back home; truly, Linne thought it was unnecessary that they went on the horse at all. Niera stepped down her mare, careful not to be seen by the city guards, or the stable boy. Her cloak seemed to make her struggle getting down.

However, when she hit the ground, there was an evident and loud _thump_ where she must have slipped, or did not have the strength to stop herself from falling. Holding her laughter, Linne followed suit, careful not to make the mistake Niera did. When her sister turned to the two horses, she already composed herself and took the small pouch that had the vials and alchemy instruments, "We need to send them going first," she explained, patting the two horses' back. They walked slowly towards the direction of the stable. "I could have sneaked them in, that would be quicker, but trickier."

"Here I thought the famed assassin, Niera, could do everything," Linne sighed, watching the horses as they stopped outside the stable gate, then to Niera, who was holding the round stone that was wrapped inside her cloak. The cloth was not even burnt in the slightest.

Niera did not seem impressed. "I have my own faults, as you have yours. Best not linger on it; we need to get back to Cheydinhal. I need—my friend must be waiting for these herbs." She looked down at the orb and tilted her head, as if thinking where to hide it, lest the guards ask her of its strange appearance.

"It struck me as odd that you put a lot of dedication to find the ingredients. Jumping into an Oblivion gate with no deep knowledge of what lies on the other side?" Linne tried to keep her voice steady, keeping the fear of her sister's anger to herself. Niera decided to put the orb by her side, held with an arm as she walked on.

Suddenly, however, she said, "Let's just keep it at: he is a friend that I am indebted to. A simple and adequate answer, in retrospect."

Feeling that she would never get another answer from her sister, Linne nodded and let the silence drag on as they continued their way to the gates. It was before dawn when they left the city, and it was dark again when they returned.

The guards who were standing before the gates, however, were different. Unlike the previous two, they let them in without question. Not even anything about Niera's possession. _I wonder if they know what it was, if the tale about the closed Oblivion gate months ago was true._

She shook her head, breaking herself from her train of thought.

"I'm correct if I say I'll go to the inn?" Linne asked, dreading the answer all the same. Sometimes Niera found places her sister could hide in, but it did not necessarily mean every day Linne had the luxury of actually sleeping. In fact, sleep was welcome _now_. Spoiled with a proper bed to sleep on would do that to you, even if you were used to days without proper rest. Before she could stop herself, Linne yawned. Niera, though, did not say a single word.

_I'm starting to wonder if she's deaf now_, she thought. Niera waited a few seconds, and in the torchlight she could still see her in that same thoughtful expression, until she finally moved. She walked the usual way to the inn, Linne trailing just a few steps behind.

"There are some things that are not true, in what I said earlier," Niera said, unexpectedly. They were in front of the inn, but Niera did not stop, which confused Linne even further. She was about to ask where the hell they were going, but decided on the spot that perhaps Niera wouldn't answer. They took a turn left and went through one of the twin bridges that were built over the well-known river in Cheydinhal. When they passed through the chapel's graveyard, Linne's stomach fell. _Sleeping in the undercroft again?_

Yet Niera continued without stopping. It was only when she was in the housings that she spoke. "Promise me one thing, first, Linne," Niera said, slowing down for the first time. Her tone was quiet, but urgent, "Everything that would happen after this... and perhaps the events before, not even a single soul must know except us."

Linne was taken aback, but otherwise, she nodded slowly, cautiously. "I… promise."

"What do you promise?" Niera demanded, her voice cracking, and Linne knew instantly that her way of speaking was alike to when she usually felt guilt. What did Niera feel guilty for?

Taking a deep breath, Linne said clearer, "I swear that nobody would ever even know anything that happened today."

Niera stopped completely and turned around, her face hidden in the darkness. Not even the nearest torchlight reached her. "By what?"

_What does she mean, 'by what?' Does she want me to die to be completely sure that today's incident will be a secret for eternity?_ "By the Night Mother and Sithis. By my life, also, if that's what it takes."

"Should you back away from what will happen, will you still honour this promise?"

"Niera, what—"

"_Promise me, Linne,_" Niera said exasperatedly, with a tinge of anger. She knew that any other answer—or a question—would result in exactly _that_ fury, but yet it was all still confusing. How could she promise something that she had no knowledge of? It made no sense at all to her.

Still... it was not like she had an option served on a silver pedestal, so Linne was forced to nod, "I swear I will honour this promise."

Her sister stared at her for a moment, her blue eyes dark while scrutinizing Linne for any possibility of a lie. When she found none, Niera nodded and turned to walk once more. "I am glad that you are taking this seriously, sister. I hoped that one day you would stop taking everything with a jest."

"Some part of me still does," Linne admitted sheepishly, but drew no real reaction from Niera. Linne felt her sister's irritation cooling down, which she was grateful of. "Now that I've sworn what I had to, will you tell me where we are going?"

"In due time. We're nearly there, actually," Niera answered, stopping in front of a short iron gate belonging to the building it lead to, before walking again until they were on a yard of an abandoned house. House was not quite the right word to describe it, if Linne could say so.

Its windows—or what's left of it, anyways—were boarded up with wooden boards that had moss growing from it. The same material and its condition was applied to the door, but when Niera pulled the door knob it opened without so much as a strain, as if you were supposed to open it like any other door.

Inside was... terrifying. It matched any depiction of a haunted manor that stories her father would tell her took place in. Cobwebs covered a corner of a ceiling, while broken furniture decorated the floors here and there, with a group of barrels standing quite out of place from the rest of the broken wood. There was a stairway that must lead to the upper floor, and there was a door that must lead to the basement just on the side of the stairs.

It was eerily cold; there was no furnace in this house at all, when every other parlor must have at least one. And there was no sound except for her heavy breathing. _Yes,_ she thought,_ most definitely haunted._ For a moment, Linne was completely sure that she would be sleeping here; this will be her home for the time being.

She was still stunned in silence when Niera went towards the door that Linne speculated lead to the basement. "Know that the responsibility given to you by what will happen is no light burden, sister. You should also know by now that there will be no turning back."

Responsibility? No turning back? The pieces were there for Linne to put together, and a giddy feeling took over her first before she even made up what was happening. The only reasonable thought her head formed was that her dream was coming true; finally, she would have a family, or be part of it. She would be in the Dark Brotherhood.

_Am I, really?_ She started to doubt, but the hair on the back of her neck stood up, still. It was indescribable, the feeling of hope that she would be correct. The part of her that had grown serious reminded her that she should not hope too much, lest she get hurt when she fell from her highness. Her childish-abandon-always-taking-everything-with-a-jest part, however, screamed out the obvious. She was correct.

Linne dared not, however, say anything on the subject. She only followed Niera down a step of stairs as they descended into the darkness of the basement. She watched her footing carefully, keeping her happiness bottled up. Linne looked at her sister for a while, only to be reminded of her lifelong wish.

Finally, there was an unnatural red glow from somewhere down the corridor. So deep in her bliss, Linne did not notice that they took a turn where the walls and floors were not manmade. They went through the cavern-like corridor that ended with a single stone door, which was the source of the red light.

Immediately after glancing once at the artwork of the door—a woman thin as bone surrounded by small children; in fact, the woman was holding a child—all doubt that she was going to be initiated to the Dark Brotherhood vanished. Niera touched the smooth surface of the door and a slow hiss sounded from it, "_What is the colour of night?_"

"Sanguine, my brother," Niera answered. Linne was staring with eyes wide as saucers, her heart beating against her chest. Her sister took a small look at her and showed the smallest of smiles, though was it of amusement at Linne's ridiculousness she would never know.

Slowly, the door opened by itself. Linne took a small gulp and followed her sister into the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.

"_Welcome home,_" the door said as it closed behind them.

* * *

Her sister's giddiness was too evident, and not in the least subtle. Niera knew Linne for her entire life, and if anything excited her more than joining the Dark Brotherhood... well, nothing did. The best thing to ever happen in Linne's short life was acknowledged by the brotherhood.

Niera did not completely understand Linne's complete fascination with the group of murderers. It _was_ the Dark Brotherhood that killed their father, though Linne would never know _that_. And it never hurt to mention that if you're a member, you're a member for life. Betrayal is taken seriously, and if there was a crime that goes unpunished, colour Niera surprised.

Excluding, of course, the case of betrayal that was happening now. Niera took a deep breath to prepare herself for the worst and turned to Linne. "It is not usually my place to welcome you to the sanctuary, but since the housekeeper is not in the hall I suppose the first member you see would. Welcome to the Dark Brotherhood, sister."

If it was possible, Linne was grinning very, very wide. "I... am a part of the... Brotherhood?" she said, unsure, yet her joy was still apparent. She walked deeper into the hall, to where Niera was standing. "I... I truly don't know what to say."

"Thank you, perhaps," Niera said, looking around the hall. It was too quiet, even for an eerie place like the Sanctuary. There should always be Antoinetta's bright—and yet still dark—comments about a fellow assassin's contract. Telaendril and Gogron's banter usually filled the empty corridors, yet their voices were not even there.

A realisation hit her that maybe... no, it can't be. As much as Niera wanted to believe that maybe they were all asleep, or some were on a contract, a dark feeling in her stomach formed that they were all already _purified_. That Lachance's task for her was just another one of those damned tests of loyalty, and she failed. That she proved too quick to act on the words of a person unworthy to listen to the Night Mother.

She took a heavy swallow to lessen the lump in her throat, but it did nothing to help. Linne seemed to sense Niera's unease and asked, "What's happening? Why's it so quiet?"

"I don't now," confessed she, and it was all she could do to stop the tears forming in the back of her eyes. She could be over exaggerating. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere."

Linne nodded, and it was a good enough answer for Niera as she walked towards the right, to the living quarters, where, if her assumptions were correct, her peers were resting in.

Just before she touched the handle of the door, however, she felt that sense of guilt as she held out her hand. "Linne," she called out, as quiet as possible. Niera did not expect her sister to hear, but when Niera looked back Linne's attention was on her, "Listen, Linne, about what I said earlier..." she took a small breath, "I meant it all, for your safety. You're my sister, and I don't want you hurt, and you're safer here than anywhere else." She turned around to face the door again, touching the doorknob, "I beg of you, don't do anything rash."

Before she could even hear an answer, she opened the door and the main chamber disappeared from her view after she closed it shut._ By Sithis, I need to stop those guilty episodes._ Taking a deep breath, she turned around, not even daring to believe that her friends were not on the bed.

It was an immense relief, then, after she turned around the corner of the corridor, she found sitting on the table were Ocheeva, her brother, Teinaava, and Antoinetta, having a chat over their breakfast. When they heard Niera's footsteps, the two Argonians turned their heads toward her. The Breton need only look up and smiled at her dark sister.

A heavy burden lifted off Niera's shoulders. _So I _was_ overdramatizing._

"So good of you to join us once more, Niera," Antoinetta remarked when Niera sat down on her bed, trying to hide the stone orb from their view. She settled on unclasping her cloak and put them rather hastily on the floor, covering the ball altogether. When she looked at the three of them, they were back on their food.

She sighed. "Well, it feels nice to be welcomed." She stood up and went to the other table, on the other side of the room. She was positively starving, and she truly needed to replenish her energy after running into hell and back again. Just the thought of it made her sick, but still hungry.

"Sure it does," Antoinetta said after spreading her bread with butter, and taking a bite. Niera sat down and looked at the table, only finding a few slices of bread left and three apples sitting neatly on a bowl. It was enough, she supposed, but Niera very much preferred something that would help her gather her energy back. "So, how did the meeting go?"

The question caught her off guard that Niera nearly dropped her piece of bread. "I'm sorry?"

Ocheeva turned around and looked at her apologetically. _She told?_ "Don't pretend you don't know, sister," Antoinetta replied with a giggle. "Why in all of Nirn would you think that you'd sneak away unseen, of all places, in the Sanctuary?"

She huffed. It was perfectly _quiet_ and _empty_ when Niera walked out from the Brotherhood to meet with Lachance just two days ago. It was impossible that anyone saw. It was worse that Antoinetta spread word about it. Just throw Niera off the window and be done with it. "It was a moment of curiosity. Perhaps, of wanting to know just how much you'd be unseen when sneaking out the Sanctuary? Humour me."

The other Breton rolled her eyes. "Very well, if you wouldn't tell me the reason. The meeting, however, we must know."

"There was no meeting."

"Horse _shit_," Antoinetta swore, looking at Niera with a crooked smile. "There is something you're hiding here, sister. Perhaps something unsatisfactory that happened in that meeting?" her smile turned suggestively and Niera instantly, against her own will, reddened.

"I think if our sister doesn't wish to tell us, we should leave her be," Teinaava said, although he too was holding back a smile. Or was he thoroughly scolding Antoinetta? It was hard to tell on Argonians. "I'm sure she has her own reasoning."

Antoinetta pouted just a bit, but still smiled. "I suppose you're right, then," she replied, taking the last bite of her bread. "Yet it doesn't sate my curiosity."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Niera chirped, with a smug smile of her own. "Though perhaps you aren't a cat." Antoinetta put on a mock hurt look, which made the party chuckle. When the slice of bread was finally gone from Niera's hands—it was barely a minute ago that she first held it—that she stood up. "I suppose there are more things that I should—"

"Oh, hold on," Ocheeva stopped her, also backing her chair so that she could stand up. She walked over to the Breton and took a small scrap of paper from her pocket. "Speaking of our Speaker only reminded me of another note he left you."

"Maybe he dearly misses you and requires your presence back," Antoinetta said, before Niera threw an apple at her. The Breton caught it with such finesse that Niera grumbled. "Hey, careful. This could be poisoned."

"It _should_ be," Niera said darkly, but Antoinetta only smiled once more and took a bite from the fruit. Ocheeva raised a brow at the two, but shook her head to return her to the matter at hand.

"As I have said," the Argonian said, putting the paper on Niera's hand. "I do not know the meaning of it, though perhaps you would."

Confused, Niera nodded and thanked the female Argonian and went back to her bed, where she sat on as she read the note. It was curiously short, and it made her wonder if it was truly necessary to send her a one-sentence riddle.

_Those who walk in the night do not suffer as we do_.

It was not even a common saying, nor a well-known riddle; she was sure that Lachance himself created it for this occasion. Yet what was its meaning? Niera sighed and rolled the paper, putting it on her night table since it did not even seem suspicious. She was about to interpret its meaning before she suddenly remembered.

"Ocheeva, wait!" she cried out, the mentioned person already on her way to the room's exit. Ocheeva turned around curiously as Niera approached her. "I've one thing to say. I suppose that it _may_ have something to do with last night's meeting."

"Oh?" she crossed her arms. When Niera glanced at Antoinetta, the woman was also craning her head to listen better. "And what is it?"

Niera took a deep breath. Surely they won't suspect anything if suddenly she said that her sister was a member? It was wiser than them thinking Linne was a trespasser. She thanked the Night Mother that the hall was at least empty. Unsure, she tried her chances. "We have a new member with us."

"I knew it!" Antoinetta exclaimed. "I _knew_ it, and I was correct!"

She was momentarily confused at what Antoinetta could possible mean, before it dawned on her. _By all that exists in the world..._ "She is my _sister_. A _younger_ _sister_ who is _allowed_ by Lachance to _be a member of the Brotherhood,_" she stated, gritting her teeth when she finished. Antoinetta was still grinning from where she was sitting.

"Your sister? Is she possibly as good as you?" Teinaava asked. Niera almost forgot that he was still in the room, browsing the small book case that settled by the other side of the room.

_Well, is she?_ "She's never killed anyone," Niera admitted, "but only because she is young. Very, very young."

"How so?" This time it was Ocheeva who asked.

Niera turned to sit at the nearest bed. "She is not yet fourteen, though in a few more months she would turn a year," she explained, "While she may not be as experienced as us, it is only natural. Her skills will be refined as she trains and grows."

Ocheeva nodded, though there was still disbelief in her eyes. "She's never truly killed anyone?" Niera shook her head in reply. "Is this the Night Mother's willing?"

Niera chewed her lip before settling with her answer. "I don't think Lachance would allow this if it weren't."

"You bribed him," Antoinetta considered, tapping a finger on her chin. Niera groaned. Will she ever stop this jest? "Or threatened him."

"Trust me, if I tried, I'd be dead by now," Niera said, which silenced Antoinetta completely. That was good. "She is allowed to join us. Allowance by Lachance himself."

Ocheeva was considering the truth of Niera's words, and finally, after a long moment, she sighed. "I don't truly want to doubt your words, since you _were_ summoned by Lucien. And, well," she paused, turning Niera's attention back at her, "You are my trusted friend. You've eliminated Scar-tail for me; that's more than enough to earn my friendship. I believe your word that Lachance recruited your sister."

Niera sighed in relief, though she tried not to show it too much. "Thank you, Ocheeva. She's right outside if you wish to speak with her. I didn't do justice in welcoming her."

**-~O~-**

So basically nothing much happens.

**NicciP1991**: Thanks for the kind words; to be honest it quite relieved me. Though there's still a bit of pressure of updating... (if that makes any sense)


	13. No Rest For the Weary

Author's Note: First of all, I realise that I owe you all readers—probably new ones, too, even if you don't know what the hell I'm about to say—a big apology, and even that is an understatement. I didn't even know what happened. Ah, there it is. School. School happened and then stuff followed, and a certain document file titled 'Chapter 12' has been abandoned for _weeks with no end._ I was actually half-convinced that I'd chicken out of this _again_, and abandon the story, _again_... but that's not what's going to happen in a long time...

I hope.

So anyways, as I've said, I'm so terribly sorry for the terribly late update. This chapter was difficult to write, anyways, but I just—I just _don't know anymore_.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 12: No Rest for the Weary

**-~O~-**

When all that Martin did was blink unbelievably, Josephus groaned in irritation as if explaining to a two-year-old. "My lord, _Emperor_, sir," he said exaggeratedly, all excitement and wide eyes, waving the amulet in front of his body, "We have _the_ one thing to prove your bloodline. What we've been striving to get in this past year. We've got the _Amulet of Kings_!"

The rest of his Blades sheathed heir weapons and stood still, watching their emperor's every move. He knew that they were expecting something of him, something to say. His mind was racing to find just the appropriate words, but Martin was still in such disbelief, despite the amulet being right in front of his eyes. "I... I truly can't believe this," was what he managed to stammer, long before he managed to find his voice.

Josephus' almost manic grin only widened. "You have to!" His voice was barely an exclamation. "Because it's _yours_!" What Josephus did then could only be described as shoving the piece of jewelry towards

Martin's face turned still as stone. "Belongs to me? The Amulet of Kings?" he muttered. He couldn't even feel his gut. For a while, he said nothing, examining the rich red ruby that his friend held in front of him. When he stared deep enough, Martin saw fire reflected inside. It may be the fire behind him, or not, he couldn't say he knew. "So you and Jauffre have said. If it is true, if the Emperor really was my father, then I should be able to wear it," he started to form a doubtful smile, but it was a smile nonetheless, "Only those of the Septim blood can wear the Amulet of Kings."

"Go on. Put it on."

"Yes, of course. What am I waiting for? After all, this is my destiny. No man can deny his destiny..." he trailed off, not exactly knowing what else to say.

Taking a deep breath, Martin held out his hand towards the amulet's string and held on to it tightly. Slowly, he began to bring it up to his eye's view, and tying it behind his neck. When the knot secured itself, he let his death grip on the string go. By the time his hands were on his sides, the amulet did not fall off.

It felt like an eternity of silence, but finally, Josephus took a heavy breath and clapped his hands together, as if in delight, and then knelt down. "You are truly the Emperor," he shook his head, still looking down to where Martin's feet were, "I hope you don't execute me for all that teasing months ago."

Feeling his cheeks heat up in memory, Martin hurriedly patted Josephus' shoulder and made a gesture with his hand to make the Imperial stand up. Josephus did so, thankfully, after a rather late clamor of cheers and shouts of gladness from Martin's bodyguards. "There is no need to be so formal," he told Josephus for Akatosh knows how many times, "And truthfully, I don't need the amulet to prove to me that I am Uriel Septim's son. I've known it was true since you first told me back in Kvatch." As much as Martin wanted to tell the truth, that there were _many_ times he doubted himself as emperor, he kept it to himself, seeing that it was _now_ he's an emperor. "But it is one thing to talk of becoming Emperor, and quite another to actually be the Emperor," he said instead.

"You are the Emperor now, you'll be emperor someday, you're the emperor all along," Josephus said, as if testing the phrase. Exasperated, Martin beckoned him to a seat by the nearby table, the one where Martin set up his temporary study area, avoiding the burnt ruins of what used to be the portal to Paradise.

As Josephus seated himself, Martin noticed how weary his friend looked. The shadow under his eyes was a sure sign that throughout the ordeal in Paradise, Josephus had little to no sleep at all, and there was a horrible bruise on his cheekbone. "Have you looked into a mirror, lately?"

Josephus let out a laugh, and Martin himself had to smile at his jest, if for a moment. "There were no mirrors in Paradise. Anyways, if I did look into one I might get killed. Either the mirror was dangerous, or I was distracted by it, or both." He stretched in his seat, and Martin noticed a few torn parts of Josephus' armour, and the wounds underneath. Just to what extent of horrors did Josephus face to get the Amulet of Kings?

Martin shook his head, "But I digress. You should get patched up first." As he spoke, Josephus face showed immense relief.

"_Thank you_," he breathed out, "You don't know _half_ the things that could kill you in that damned Paradise. But I will allow myself to be healed _only_. I've enough fight left in me to go to the Imperial City."

"But you look _awful_," Martin protested, feeling his protests going into deaf ears anyway. Josephus looked around the table, paying more attention to the clutter and books rather than Martin's concerns. "You _must_ rest, a night at least."

"Nonsense," Josephus said, "Mehrunes Dagon will know that the amulet is with us anytime now. I'd rather not risk postponing our arrival at the Imperial City. We need to light the Dragonfires immediately."

Josephus was true, of course. This was where Martin felt they shouldn't chat idly, and so he felt it was only right of him to be forthright, "While you were gone, I sent a messenger to High Chancellor Ocato." Not until Martin finished speaking did he pick up the roll of bandage that was sitting on top of the table. At the mention of the councilor's name, Josephus' eyebrow went up. "He waits for us in the Imperial City."

"Wait a second, wait a second," he held a hand to stop Martin's explanation, "Why would we need to meet this high noble arse?"

Martin looked around to see, much to his relief that the nearest ear that could eavesdrop on their conversation was far enough just to hear Josephus' insult as a distant mutter. He unrolled the cloth bandage and ripped it where he thought it was enough, and dabbed it with a nearby healing potion. When he thought the _poultice_ was good enough—he might have lost his touch in the span of the year—he handed it to Josephus, who took it. "Chancellor Ocato is the head of the Elder Council," he explained, slowly and quietly, "The Council rules in the Emperor's absence."

His friend looked understanding then. Lifting the hem of his chest piece so he could tie the bandage around the gash on his waist, he asked, "So in a way, we need to _kiss_ this high noble's arse?"

Martin nodded, though he wished Josephus would stop using _that_ description of the High Chancellor. "In a way. I don't expect any objections from the Elder Council, but we should defer to their authority," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "and we do not want to have trouble with our own people."

"Then I say we should go," Josephus said suddenly after he tied the bandage, and before Martin could say anything, he stood up. "I don't want to waste even a second for our journey to the Imperial City."

Martin's eyebrows knitted together in frustration. "I do not want my friend to go in this state," he said, "At least rest for a night!"

"There is no rest for the weary," Josephus said, waking towards the giant doors leading to the Cloud Ruler Temple's courtyard. He did not look back as he continued his stride, and opened the doors and left it open behind him, "You must keep persevering no matter how tired or overworked you are. And I prefer to persevere, to live in a world without daedra."

Martin sighed and knew that Josephus was heading to the stables at this very moment, and nothing could change his mind.

* * *

"Captain Steffan!"

"Yes, Grandmaster?"

"I will escort the Emperor to the Imperial City; I want four of the best Blades to come with me." Jauffre kept walking across the courtyard as he continued. "Make sure that the gates are secured tightly behind us. Organize your men so you would be prepared should an attack on the temple happen." As Jauffre explained, it was clear that Steffan did not look comfortable with this. From where Josephus could see it, anyway.

As Josephus tightened the saddle of his horse, he heard the rest of Jauffre's order. "I will leave the temple in your hands for a few days." The rest of the conversation was unclear as Jauffre lowered his voice to a whisper, and Josephus heard Steffan's boots clanging as he ran to the barracks of the temple, perhaps to undergo the order he was given.

When his horse was prepared for travel, Josephus did not hesitate a second on mounting on top of it. He wasted enough time in Paradise; he should not make that a habit in Nirn. He was grateful that Jauffre understood this completely, that they should leave for the Imperial City as soon as possible.

"I should think that madness comes with adrenaline," Martin remarked as he appeared in the stables, "but I suppose that this circumstance can be excluded."

Josephus turned to him and sighed. "Jauffre seems to agree with me; we should not delay in lighting the Dragonfires." He spurred his horse to get out of the stables, nodding to Martin when he stopped at the doorway. "Don't get your robes dirty. Or should I help?"

He instantly regretted ever saying that. Martin's look turned dark as he turned around to grab a saddle. "Only because I am emperor, or a friend?" he asked grimly. Josephus was about to apologise, but Martin waved him away, "Never mind that. I think Jauffre wants a word with you."

"Yes, Your—friend."

The sky was starless tonight, or Josephus' vision was truly damned, with only the half-moon and additional sources of light to show Josephus the elderly man who served as the Grandmaster of the Blades. Jauffre had only turned away from another Blade—was it Pelagius?—when he approached him. "Martin said you called. What is the matter?"

Jauffre looked at Josephus, then answered, "Your storming out from the Great Hall had me worried for a moment. Are you sure you are prepared to ride the perilous road south? You had only returned from Paradise, in case you've forgotten."

"I remember quite well, thank you," Josephus said, pulling his horse's reins when she got frightened of something miniscule in the air, "I am sure I will survive, at least until the gates of the Imperial City. I've returned from Dagon's shrine half naked, with little food supply to keep me alive. What is a visit to the Imperial City?"

"There is small difference from that incident, sure," said the older man, "yet there is still danger of the Mythic Dawn attacking us unaware."

Josephus nodded. "All the more similarity from that incident, to what is happening now." He patted his horse's neck when she kept snorting. "Well, except that I won't be riding off half naked, and I've got the other Blades with me.

Jauffre, however displeased, only nodded as if seeing Josephus' point. He appeared to have something more to say, but the man must have thought of it as nothing of import, because he did not say anything that was more important than, "We've a few minutes before we leave; should you want to share a few farewells with your comrades, you'd have enough time. Dismissed."

A small party on horseback—no more than a dozen—had gathered themselves in the courtyard. Baurus was one of them, and he nodded at Josephus' general direction. When he neared the temple's doors, Caroline, who was on a shift to guard the entrance, only made a face, "When did the last time you took a bath? Or gave your horse one, for that matter?"

"Duty calls, Carol," he said, though he showed a half-hearted grin, "And heroes don't have time to wash themselves when their enemies are at their throats."

"Then I don't think I'll fancy the heroes in the tales anymore." She waved at him as he trotted to the training ground, a simple part of the courtyard floored with grass, and there were the usual weapon stands and the two Blades that Josephus had always spied training together even in the ungodly hours of morning until night. Day in, day out.

"Are you leaving with the Emperor soon?" Belisarius called out after he parried a blow from Ferrum, his training partner. It was quite a strange sight to see Ferrum outside of the Temple Armory—one would think the Breton actually _lived_ there. "It is an honour not many people get. I admit, I am quite envious of your position now."

"Don't be," Josephus said, in hopes of lightening his friend's mood, yet he found no good jest to say. "I won't be able to enjoy the mead and ale, warm fire, a proper bed... I'll probably sleep near horse shit, at any rate. Anyways, enjoy what you have; I'm sure Martin will call on you two soon enough. Your skills in blades outweigh mines." Looking around, he said, "Give my farewells to the others. Jauffre would want me to return to the party by now."

Still, he looked back at the magnificent structure which was the Cloud Ruler Temple for the last time, before joining the group of mounted Blades as they descended down the stone steps towards the open gates, which will lead them down to the mountain road, hidden in snow, and perilous for a man as weary as Josephus.

* * *

Just as Linne fingered the spine of the book—a ragged, soot covered leather that was distinctly blue—and decided that it might be worth reading, a voice called from somewhere to her left. Had it been any louder, Linne might have dropped the book in fright. "Welcome to the Dark Brotherhood! I assume you are Niera's sister?"

When Linne turned around, she found an Argonian standing in a friendly posture, her arms opened as if for an embrace and a smile on her face, red scales speckled with moss green. Linne realised that she hadn't replied with anything, so she forced a smile even when she was confused like this. "Y-yes, I suppose you could say that." The sound of her own sentence made her want to slap her own forehead. Who else is Linne _besides_ Niera's sister? She shouldn't be implying lies. She shook her head, her face heating up. "I meant, yes, I'm her sister."

If the Argonian spotted the mistake in Linne's words, she made no attempt to prod at it except to chuckle. That, of course, did not make Linne any less uneasy at this point. "I can understand that you are nervous, sister. Niera has told stories of your eagerness to join us. To finally be a part of it is a great honour that I _hope_ you would never think to dishonour."

"Definitely not thinking about that," replied Linne, putting the book back to the shelf to hide her face. "I've gone too far to actually turn back, anyways, right?"

"Too true," said the Argonian, "And there is no turning back, unless you wish to invoke the Wrath of Sithis." The Argonian's shrug was so casual and nonchalant when Linne turned to her that Linne felt frightened. "Some traitors are certainly asking for a guaranteed, miserable death indeed."

"Excuse me?" Linne asked, baffled. Traitors? Miserable death? Sure, it made sense—traitors of the Dark Brotherhood deserved to die, yet Linne knew little of the matter.

The Argonian waved a hand in dismissal. "Here I am spouting out rumours while you're here, finally having your greatest dream coming true—if what Niera says is true. And we haven't even introduced each other properly. My, where has my usual manners gone? I am Ocheeva, mistress of the Sanctuary. And you are...?"

She took a deep breath before answering. "Linne." It felt a whole world of a difference to say your name in an occasion such as this. Because she was finally, _finally_ about to be admitted to the Dark Brotherhood, and at an age younger than Niera's when _she_ was accepted. It felt glorious.

"Ah, Linne. Niera's mentioned your name several times, but it slipped my mind. Forgive me." Ocheeva tapped a finger on her chin with a thoughtful look. "Linne. Is that a short name for something else?"

Linne made a face at that—she _hated_ her full name, and it was one of her father's stupidest deed that he decided to name her something so weak and fragile. "Yes, but I prefer Linne a _lot_ more," she said, forgetting herself, "I find it to be less of a mouthful, too."

Ocheeva laughed slightly at Linne's sudden outburst, but commented no further. "Linne it is, then." She gestured at a nearby seat, beside the bookcase, and wordlessly, Linne sat on it as Ocheeva took the chair leaning nearby the wall. "Right, Linne. Usually, my greetings consist of welcomes and an explanation on how contracts work."

Linne nodded slowly, saying nothing else. The Argonian continued. "Do you know of the Black Sacrament?"

"A ritual of sorts done to speak to the Night Mother... pray to her to kill someone, I think." She sighed. "I couldn't have worded that worse."

"The Listener distributes the prayers the Night Mother tells to him as a form of a contract. To be more precise, the Listener orders his Speakers to _speak_ to the person who did the Black Sacrament, and arrange a deal; we kill, they pay."

It was an effort not to flinch at Ocheeva's description, yet deep down Linne's hopes were slightly turning more into an indescribable feeling of fear. She realised that, not counting the scamp that she killed with a _rock_ this afternoon, she was inadequate for murder. There would be blood on her hands. Some of these thoughts had passed her mind the past few months, yet she waved them away, remembering she might not join the Dark Brotherhood in _years_, and she'll probably mature out of the sinking feeling in her gut whenever she thought of herself murdering someone in cold blood.

Linne was here. Now. Any day, she would receive her first contract—it did not even have to be a different day than now. "I... think I understand that."

Ocheeva smiled. "Good." She glanced over to the bookshelf and stood to grab one—and Linne blushed when she found it was titled _The Lusty Argonian Maid_, even when Ocheeva tried her best to hide the cover from the Breton's view—and returned to her seat, reading. Linne was tapping her fingers rather impatiently on the seat's arm. Ocheeva noticed this and looked up. "Yes?"

"I don't quite know much else than that," Linne admitted, quite crestfallen when she heard the words by herself. "Who do I go for contracts? Where would I sleep?" She wiped her sweaty palms against her breeches; _when will I kill?_

"Oh, how could I forget such essential information? Heh, I must have been used to the few members we get every year." She gestured at the hall. "We actually had a promising recruit, but he died on the way here. Such a shame. But, as you asked, contracts. You'll be receiving them from Vicente for now." She pointed to a corridor just slightly visible from Linne's field of view. "His room is down there—the last door you'll see going through the corridor. The first is mine.

"As for sleeping, the room your sister entered would be your best option, but we don't have enough beds for everybody. Some of us already have to stay up at night and sleep in mornings. I hope you don't mind."

Linne yawned, realising just how tired she was. Travelling for a day and receiving little rest was not what she imagined it to be. There were tales she heard in the inn where heroes just travel for a snap of a second as if it was as easy as that. Never again would Linne suspend belief. Maybe only on rare occasions.

"I don't mind, so long as you don't mind me sleeping now," she said, heading towards the door that Niera went through. "It's been a tiring day."

**-~O~-**

The chapter's title has absolutely no relation to my life right now.

Nope.

(repeats series of apologies and sorries)

**Boys Do Like Girls**: Last chapter was actually fun to write, hell to edit for no reason what-so-ever, but feels good to know it was great. And I think I can say—but not promise—that there would be a bit more Martin in the next chapter (welp, you just read him in this chapter woot.)


	14. Unease

Author's Note: I truthfully didn't intend to disappear for a (two?) month. My reason is probably not a legit one, either: I HAVE OBLIVION TO FUNCTION PROPERLY AND NOT CRASH EVERY FEW MINUTES AGAIN! Well, my brother did most of the tinkering and all that, but STILL! Ooooh the joooooooyyyyyy.

_(Despite having the game, I don't think I can show the world my re-creation of Josephus. It's been too long since I last played and I forgot how to make him and so Present-In-Game Josephus looks far from what Blood of the Septim depicted him and so very far from fangirl material SUE ME)_

**-~O~-**

Chapter 13: Unease

**-~O~-**

Niera watched silently as Linne sat on top of a bed—probably chosen by random—and continued dabbing the cut on her arm with a small cloth, wetted with a healing potion Antoinetta had been kind enough to make for her. The sisters eyed each other, before Niera looked away to the other inhabitants in the living quarters.

Antoinetta was busying herself by reading a book, so far ignoring the other Bretons in the room. Teinaava had taken his leave to train in the training room a few moments ago—for a moment Niera wondered if he by chance already met Linne on his way there. Antoinetta glanced up when she felt Niera staring at her, but Niera looked away quickly.

"So, how was the last contract you did before going to that secretive meeting of yours?" asked Antoinetta, her smile barely hidden.

"Which one?" she asked, meeting the Breton's eye, trying to sound smug. "The one where I killed Adamus Phillida, or the Altmer mother who should know better than to drown her husband? They did happen one after another, anyways." Then she scoffed. "I think Ocheeva forgot the reward for the latter."

If Antoinetta was irritated, she hid the emotion well. "I ask of the former, of course, sister. I could care less about family matters."

"There is nothing much to say about it. I followed Phillida for about three days, trying to find the safest spot to kill him." She looked back down at her wound. It was cleaner now, and the blood was only a thin line where the Harrada had lashed at her. She shifted in her seat so that she could see Antoinetta better. "The man went for a swim when I climbed atop a roof in Leyawiin. It wasn't the best spot, as after I shot the Rose of Sithis I could easily be seen, but I was quick enough to avoid that mess."

Antoinetta nodded. "But how so?"

"Houses in Leyawiin are tall, I have to admit. But they are easy to climb down, though difficult in the night." Niera chuckled. "And let's not forget that a good Chameleon spell is a life saver in these situations."

Before Antoinetta could open her mouth, Niera continued. "But, I was not about to escape from a bonus. Not yet."

"What did you have to do?" she asked, flipping a page of her book, though her attention was to the other Breton woman.

Niera grinned. "I walked over to his corpse before his bodyguard could alarm nearby citizens, and cut off his finger, where he was wearing his ring. If time wasn't a priority at that contract, I would have mutilated more than just his finger. I may have stolen a few keys, as well, but he is dead, anyways.

"I went to the Imperial City, which was an exhausting journey on foot, so I stole a horse from the stables in Bravil. It did not take an entire day to reach the City, though my horse protested greatly from his exhaustion. I went into the city, sneaking into the Imperial Prison. It was an hour after midnight, I believe, and there shouldn't be many guards then. And I was right.

"I headed to a desk in the Imperial Legion Offices, and picked the lock on the desk I was supposed to put it in. I decided the chest on the left side was too full, so I grabbed a few goods. Nothing wrong with thieving from the Imperial Legion, right?"

"Oh, Niera," Antoinetta laughed. "You are one greedy—"

"I am not finished yet," Niera cut off, "and I'd rather tell the whole tale now rather than continuing it later.

"I was wrong in my previous calculations, where I thought that my timing was more or less perfect." Antoinetta snorted, Niera glared, Linne held her breath. Niera, however, continued as if the minor intrusion meant little to her. "It was about dawn when I exited the office. There were guards who saw me, and was about to chase me. I did not have time for a chameleon spell, so I entered the office once more and went to the basement. I don't know what I was thinking when trapping myself in the Office was a good idea, but it was better than nothing. There were many barrels and crates in the basement, and an idea sprung in my head."

"Don't tell me you hid inside one of them?" Linne asked in excitement. The two other Bretons looked at her in surprise, and Linne blushed, looking back down.

"My sister guessed right," answered Niera after a moment. "One of the barrels was big enough for my body. I admit I have had enough of hiding inside barrels and crates, but it was better than being discovered. So I waited, and waited, long after the guards have prodded around the room. I took a peek into the office and found it was empty. Thinking it was a trap, I put on a chameleon spell just in case. When I went out from the building, they were having a funeral for the dead man. Sad, truly. I think it was sadder that I picked one of the richer of the guard's pockets."

A quiet laughter came out from Niera's listeners. Antoinetta was grinning, but Linne was obviously hiding her unease. Niera glanced at her briefly, met her eyes, and turned away.

* * *

The wind was blowing, rather mockingly, strong and cold, bringing Josephus' body into shivers every now and then. Or was it just his lack of sleep catching up on him? Whatever adrenaline he had left, it must have been gone, blown away by the wind. But the worst pain of all resided in his right leg, where it numbed the limb and whenever his leg shifted just in the slightest, a sharp, prickling feel bit his leg.

"How much farther until Bruma?" Josephus called out. The day was still very young, but Bruma never felt this far from Cloud Ruler Temple.

Cyrus, who was one of the Blades in the escort party, laughed. "Arse getting sore already? We're not even down the mountain to Bruma yet. If I were you, I'd be patient like the others."

Too tired to make a comeback, Josephus stirred in his saddle. Whether he liked it or not, Cyrus _was_ right. His arse was beginning to get sore. Now he regretted refusing the offer of sleeping first before heading to the Imperial City. His head was aching, his stomach growling every now again in hunger, and overall, he was _tired_. _No rest for the weary_, he kept thinking, _but I'm not weary, so I _should _be allowed to rest._

At least the world would be fairer if he could just lay down and sleep.

"Josephus, friend," a voice called. Not loud, not quiet. Martin was riding beside him, looking better suited to play the part of hero rather than his saddle sore friend. "How are you holding up?"

Josephus tried to smile, but the effort itself was too much for him. Instead, he shrugged. "I've been worse. Lack of sleep couldn't stop the glorious hero from marching towards the Imperial City. I've even read about gods defeating Mehrunes Dagon in their sleep."

"Was it the book by Carlovac Townway?" asked Martin. "I forgot which one from the series, but I distinctly remember that Almalexia and Sotha Sil did _not_ send back Dagon by sleeping."

"That's where you're wrong. They didn't just _sleep_, they also defeated Mehrunes Dagon." Even his words sounded nonsensical, but in his exhausted state, he did not muster the need to care. "And... there was all that battle in that castle—whatsitsname—and _bam_." He clapped his hands, though considering the sloping mountain road, his fatigue, and his horse's stubbornness, the action was extremely dangerous. "Dagon went back to Oblivion. Why can't I do the same?"

Martin smiled. "Well, friend, I do not mean to offend you, but you are not a god."

"No sense in correcting that, I suppose, though Josephus, God of Beauty has a nice ring to it. Dibella will be _envious_."

"Second," continued Martin, before Josephus' remarks could properly set in its effects on the former priest's mind, "The Last Year of the First Era was a work of historical fiction. It was exaggerated on certain points—"

"I understand what historical fiction _means_... _Sire_." He shook his head, stopping his eyes from drooping. "I could use a bit of ale, truthfully. And a pillow, if you please."

Martin clicked his tongue, which somewhat irritated Josephus. "I've offered you a day of rest, and you flat out refused it. I told you to get proper sleep, and you only said, 'Oh, no! We _must_ arrive at the Imperial City in three seconds!' and stormed off the Great Hall." He paused thoughtfully. "And what were the things you said about no rest again? Oh, right, no rest for the weary. Happy riding."

Martin's horse spurred to a small trot, but her rider looked back at Josephus. "I almost forgot. We will stop at Bruma to gather a few supplies. It seems that in such a hurry to leave for the capital, we did not even bring food... or tents..." He shrugged. "Maybe we could even have the stubborn arse to sleep."

And in a few seconds, Martin Septim rode off, catching up with the escort party. Josephus did not even feel hurt from the insult, or realise that he was going very slow. He grumbled. "Thanks for letting me know, _sire_."

* * *

Linne pointed to the piece of paper that rested on Niera's desk. "What's that?"

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" her sister replied, still crushing the mush of green and brown contained in the mortar and pestle. "You've got a big day ahead of you, if you want to start your life as a brotherhood member."

Linne waved her sister's comment off. "Ocheeva explained already, no need to repeat something I know now."

Niera turned back to the concoction she was making, and Linne's interest turned to it. "Is that the potion that your 'friend' needed? The one you went into Oblivion to just to get it?"

"Can't you _clearly_ see that I did not manage to gather the Harrada roots?" Niera asked, irritated. "Did you not _spend_ a full hour harvesting Milk Thistle?" She turned to look at the room, which was empty save for the two of them. "Listen. I lied. I may have said that a friend needed it, but in truth, it was a lie."

"...And?" Linne prodded, when Niera did not continue.

"And that answers your question. There _was_ no friend in the beginning. I needed the poison for... a contract. I'll need to leave today, I think." Without a second of hesitation, she turned her attention back to the poison she was making.

Linne nodded. "Will you tell me where this contract will take you?"

Niera paused for a moment, then added another petal of the milk thistle. "No."

"Who do you need to kill?"

"A group of people. An organisation. That's all you need to know." Not stopping for a breath, she continued, "Now, please leave me be. I don't want my poison to be imperfect just because I chatted idly with my sister."

_She speaks of her contracts so easily..._ "Niera..." That managed to get her sister's attention, though only barely. She was still adding a few petals of milk thistle, and mixing small branches, methodically mashing them until they were only a thick glop of light purple with green specks in it. "Is it... true, when you killed that—that guard captain?"

The silence that enveloped them was as dangerous as Niera's tone. "Do you think I lied, Linne?"

"No, I don't."

"Then why do you ask if you know I told the truth?" she said, her voice low, close to a whisper. "Why would I lie to my fellow dark brothers and sisters?" Niera turned in her seat, her blue eyes almost shining with tears. But that was only the candlelight on the table in the corner, and the dimness where the candle did not shine to them.

Or was Niera truly on the brink of tearing up again? Linne could not even tell. "The way you told them was... unalike to how you tell them to me, I was almost convinced you were a different person then. You told them so indifferently, so guiltless—"

Niera chuckled at that, a small smile appearing on her face, but Linne knew that the nature of her amusement was Linne's silliness. Her words even told it true. "You are still such a naïve girl, Linne. You have a lot to learn."

_Then teach me,_ Linne wanted to say. What she did, however, was only bowing her head, pretending to understand.

"There are two types of people in this world, Linne," Niera said, not taking her eyes away from Linne. And she could feel them, looking at her. "The honest, and the liar. Yet the former seems to be rare these days. I did not tell them my honest feelings..." Here, Niera finally looked down to the floor, and Linne glanced at her sister forming a thin lipped frown. "Because it will only embarrass me. I was, however, honest with myself by saving the trouble of being ashamed of this guilt. This haunting feelings, these ghosts of those victims that linger on."

Slowly, Niera turned back to the mortar and pestle, continuing to add a few more petals, a bit of water, and maybe a few small branches.

Linne walked away, not really looking where she was going, so she was responsible of her own tumble. "_Ow!_ What was that?" she asked to no-one in particular, and then saw the orb rolling from underneath the white bed sheet that was thrown on it, maybe to cover it.

Niera's attention turned once more to her sister. Before she could snatch away the item in question, however, Linne had her hands around it, no longer feeling the heat it radiated. That was strange. Previously, on the road, it had nearly burned through Linne's glove. She stared at it deeply before it was seized by her sister, who put the orb on her desk wordlessly. "I was still handling that."

"No, you were not. It's not even yours. I did not give you permission to poke around my belongings. What use does it serve you, anyways?" Niera's tone was firm, and there was no way Linne could persuade her otherwise. "Go to sleep Linne. You'll need it if you are to see Vicente tomorrow."

"I don't need to see him on the morrow—"

"He specifically observes new recruits, Linne. It is a process I also go through, so don't think that you could get away with it." Niera made sure that the ball wouldn't roll down the desk before turning herself around to face Linne completely, her face showing only a portion of the irritation she held within. "Do not brush this first meeting away as if it is _not_ important. _He_ will be the one to give you contracts from now. While the tenets stop him from killing unpromising recruits, if he holds a grudge against you, he'll make sure your next contract will be a stone that kills two birds."

_As if I don't need anything else to fear tonight,_ she thought, _and to think I'll live in the same building as the man_. "Anything else I should remember so I won't be murdered in my first contract?" she asked, forgetting their previous conversation. It seemed that Niera also preferred that they ignore Niera's words of _wisdom_.

"Vicente is... not as he seem." When Niera said that, she hesitated so much that she spoke very quietly. Like she was hiding something. "If he looks _menacing_ to you—I am using the word very loosely—then you would need to excuse him. I believe he hasn't left the Sanctuary for two—for a few years."

Linne crossed her hands, expecting Niera to elaborate just what she _meant_ by 'menacing' when Teinaava—since he was only the Argonian male in the brotherhood, as was explained briefly by Antoinetta, Linne assumed it was him—entered the room, his scales shining and slick. Linne was not even completely certain if Argonians were capable of sweating. He looked at Linne and smiled. "The new recruit, are you?"

Returning the smile, Linne nodded. "My name is Linne. Niera's sister."

"Teinaava. Ocheeva's brother." He went to the seat that Antoinetta had previously sat on to explain to Linne a less than accurate version of the rules in the brotherhood, somehow adding more unnecessary details than needed—"It would be troublesome to have any sort of 'affair' in the Brotherhood, so remember that. Speaking of affairs..."—and made himself comfortable, picking up a book on the nearby table and then showing a disgusted look. "Ocheeva should know better than to leave her favourite book out, and forgetting to put it away."

"Where is she, by the way? She didn't seem to give my sister a tour of the sanctuary like she did with me last time. I'm afraid if Linne would stumble upon the rat and scare herself," Niera said, a sympathetic look on her face.

Linne sighed. "It's alright, dear sister. Now that you've mentioned rats, I know what I should expect." She had helped a bit in the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn. Mostly dealing with the rats. In return, Mariana, the publican would give her a glass of mead. No more than half a glass, though, since she said that it would be bad for Linne's young mind.

"Ocheeva said she needed to speak to Vicente, though I don't know what. Garlic in his soup again, maybe—" Upon seeing Linne's curious look, though, he quickly added, "You know how he values how his _breath_ smelled."

Niera nodded and went back to adding a few droplets of water to her paralyzing poison. "Maybe I need to speak to him, too." Not even looking at Linne, she added casually, "No, not about you, don't worry, sister."

"I—never mind." Linne chose to sit down on her bed once more, which was forgotten ever since she stumbled upon that strange orb Niera kept away from her. Perhaps one day she could ask about it, but obviously now Niera was cross at her for some reason. Or just plainly angry at the world once more.

* * *

It took a while, but after the fifth or sixth time she contemplated Lachance's small riddle, Niera pieced together what she thought might be the answer.

Long before she was sure Linne was asleep, she left the room, her plan only vague pieces of fabric threaded together with thin, almost invisible string. But she knew for a fact that vampires, with their supernatural strengths, even with their weakness to sunlight, were immune to a good amount of magic. Maybe even her own potent poison, if the wives' tales were true.

Niera went down the corridor towards Vicente's chambers, turned where it turned and went down when it sloped. For a while it was dark until she passed by a torch, and for a while it was dead silent before she heard M'raaj-Dar's mutterings. When she passed him, the Khajiit looked and her and scowled, as usual. She ignored him, knowing well that if she said anything it would only make things a lot worse, and attempting to befriend the Khajiit was almost pointless.

The closer she went to the double doors at the end of corridor, the more her uncertainty grew. How could she possibly ask the vampire on how to paralyse himself? The blunt nature of the question irked Niera as she cringed. She stopped in front of the doors, hearing Ocheeva's voice talking over Vicente's. The worst of all was that while Ocheeva sounded riled up, Vicente gave no hint of ever growing furious. His tone was calm, almost expressionless, even though Niera could not comprehend a word they were saying.

_This will take a while_, she guessed, and leaned against a wall. When the posture was too uncomfortable, she slid down and sat on the cold floors, waiting second by second until Ocheeva appears from the doors.

When a quarter of an hour went to a half, and a half turned to a full hour, she grew impatient and decided enough was enough. All this waiting and delaying was making her even more anxious, but she had not even thought of a single word to say to Vicente that would be proper of her. She was, to the knowledge of the other members, a newly appointed Assassin. And besides Lachance and herself, there was not a single soul who knew that she was Silencer to Lucien Lachance. In fact, maybe none of them believed that she was actually summoned by the Speaker. And it was only their speculation that she had a meeting with Lachance.

_I am much too sober for this,_ she thought grimly, about to stand up and knock on the door without so much as a second thought when Ocheeva appeared, finally. She looked briefly at Niera before walking away, into the dark corridor. The Breton stood up and looked at the direction of the Argonian, but could see nothing in this lighting. She sighed.

She walked over to where the door was opened, and saw Vicente sitting on a seat, a closed book on the table, his hands folded neatly on his lap. The epitome of calm and indifference. Niera shivered all over her body, closing the door behind her. _It has to happen, sooner or later, eh?_ His red eyes looked at her, but not giving away anything in he was thinking. _Lachance better repay me adequately._

"Did you overhear our conversation?" the Vampire asked, though it was more curious than accusatory. "You must forgive us. Ocheeva wishes no harm on my part, but it seems that no one is a better cook than Antoinetta, since she puts garlic on everything she cooks. Somehow she was offended by the fact that she should hire a proper chef. It was only a jest."

Niera tried to smile, but whatever appeared on her face must have been a disgrace of a smile. "I didn't overhear anything, but judging from Ocheeva's look when she passed me she was well past the border of _offended_. I've never seen her so angry before."

"It has happened once, before you arrived." He waved a pale, wrinkled hand in dismissal. "But I'm sure you're not here to discuss about our Sanctuary's mistress. What did you want to talk about?"

It took longer than Niera would have liked, but she had no better way of saying it. "I... wish to know more about vampirism." She looked at the book on the table, which was nothing else but _The Five Tenets_. "But if I interrupted your reading, I could ask another time. I didn't want—"

He furrowed his dark brown brows, looking at the object in question. "What, this?" He picked it up, considering it for a while, maybe, and then put it back to its original position on the table. "I have put this down even before Ocheeva entered. You were interrupting nothing."

"Maybe you wanted to continue reading it now, and I was interrupting _that_—"

"Do not speak such nonsense, sister," he interrupted, and even in the calmness which he replied with, there was firmness in his words. She shouldn't ramble, she knew, but she couldn't help but avoid the subject of the dark gift he offered months ago.

She nodded. "Forgive me," she said, completely sincere, "then you wouldn't mind in me asking about... your... your condition?"

Vicente looked at her the way she would usually look at others, calculating and considering, analyzing her face for an explanation for her _strange_ fear of vampirism, or her reluctance to speak of it, before he gestured to the chair beside him. "Take a seat, then. I am sure you have plenty of questions."

Hesitantly, she walked over to the seat she was offered. When she settled herself, however, she wanted nothing more than to run away from this room. _Damn it, Niera. Toughen up!_ "Is there a cure for vampirism once I turn? What are some benefits of it? The down sides? How could I know when I should feed and where to—"

"Sister, do calm yourself." Vicente held a hand to stop her barrage of questions. He chuckled. "One at a time, please. 'Is there a cure for vampirism?' There is, though maybe it would be difficult to acquire one. Raminus Polus in the Arcane University studied about this subject. He'd give you a better explanation."

When he stopped talking, Niera planned on her words. "What are some immunities that a vampire has?"

"Most poisons and diseases. Sometimes some magic, if you recently fed."

"Magic?" she asked, "What sorts?"

"Destruction magics, for the most part," he answered. "There are books that cover this matter, yet for the life of me I can't recall them at the moment."

She hesitated. "Feeding?"

"It is not easy, being unseen while drinking one's blood." For a second, Vicente's bright red eyes turned dark as blood. Or was it the candle between them? "But eventually you would get the knack of it, and since you are a member of the Dark Brotherhood..." He gestured towards her. "It will not be difficult for you, I'm sure. But I'm guessing that you mean to ask of the benefits after feeding. It is almost like a normal human's hunger, truly. The more you eat, the stronger you are. Eating over your own capacity, however... you might become more than slightly blood lusted."

The thought of ever consuming blood sickened Niera, and a bitter taste in her mouth reminded just how she hated vampires ever since she had come in close encounters to be food for it. She did not realise that she was scowling, however, because Vicente turned concerned. "Are you alright, sister?"

"Yes," she answered simply. He was about to reply to _that_ when she continued her line of questions. "If I am a vampire, can I still be affected with paralysis? Technically, their bodies stopped some of its functions. Wouldn't paralysis have no effect on them, then?"

He considered this. "You are true in that."

"If I am to go out in daylight completely covering my entire body, will that still hurt?"

"I am starting to think you are asking hypothetical questions, Niera. Who would ever cover themselves completely?" He gave her a smile which she did not return. "Are you asking me that you would want to accept the dark gift I offered you?"

When his words sunk into her understanding, she vividly remembered the contract she was given so long ago that she was sure that she had forgotten, and she was _supposed_ to forget it.

The contract was simple enough. No special requirements; no request for a specific body part to be dismembered, no need to hide the body... The contract only needed someone to kill a 'weak and dying vampire', yet before Niera could silently slide her blade against his throat, he turned his pale red eyes to her, hard and unwelcoming, cold and terrifying. It was all planned perfectly—she had scoured the house of an escape route and found three, she already went inside undetected...

Yet, his eyes bore deeply into hers and a fear she had never known to exist engulfed her. His hand was gripping her wrist, almost crushing it with his immense strength. He could lift it up to his fangs easily... so easily... "Who are you? What are you doing? _Why are you here?"_ he had hissed at her with complete of hatred. Then, he sneered. "Are you volunteering to be my food?"

"Sister, you do not look well." Vicente grabbed her by the her hand, perhaps to help her stand up, but her head snapped towards him, and snatched her hands away.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped. The surprise on Vicente's face was evident after his usual emotionless appearance. The world she remembered disappeared and she was there, in front of the innocent—innocent? He was far from innocent—vampire, and she lost the words she wanted to say. "I—Forgive me. I must return to the living quarters, I don't feel quite well."

If anything was hypocritical, it was the fact that Niera stormed off just quite like Ocheeva did, when she _promised_ herself she would be anything _but_ suspicious. She was breathless once she reached the great hall, and for once, she was grateful of the empty halls. At least nobody then could see the unease etched on her face.

**-~O~-**

Aside from my apologies for updating after a (two?) month of silence, I have nothing to say.

Except that you should definitely read 2920, The Last Year of the First Era if you haven't. It's an in-game book, so it probably has a bit of umm... lore. (and it's amazing cue Tribunal fangirling)

P.S to those reading this as this is updated: I think my two months of silence gave me ample time to complete chapter fourteen. I'll upload it in a bit. Or a few more days. Still needs a bit of editing.


	15. Promises Best Kept

Author's Note: I have nothing to say except that I am proud of this chapter, not only because I decided to upload this as soon as it was done being edited (though I'm sure some mistakes slipped by-do tell me if you spot some mistakes) but because THIS is what I've been wanting to write ever since beginning this fic the second time around.

Yeah, so very proud.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 14: Promises Best Kept

**-~O~-**

Children ran among the snow covered cobblestone streets, laughing as they played their game of chase. A few Nords were enjoying a bottle of ale by themselves, huddled in a corner. The only people seeing—and noticing—the Emperor's escort party were the guards. _So soon they have forgotten their saviours,_ Josephus thought grimly. He glanced to his right, and for once was delighted to see a familiar statue where the figure was holding up a bow that might have been dramatised on the 'breathtaking' factor. _At least they built a statue of me._

He watched as Martin called a man armoured in chainmail with the Bruma sigil on the cuirass. "Inform the Countess of the Emperor's arrival. I seek an audience with the lady in her throne room."

Upon glancing at the red ruby resting on Martin's chest, the man—he looked barely sixteen, once Josephus paid closer inspection—scampered off to the direction of the castle. Any faster and he might have slipped on the melting ice. Josephus suppressed a chuckle at the thought. Laughing like a mad man was not something he would do now—especially so soon after their so-called grand arrival in the wintery city.

"I admit," Martin murmured to his friend, "I expected a few of the citizens to turn their heads and bow before their Emperor, as arrogant as that might sound."

Josephus gave a shrug. "I suppose that's a fair expectation, seeing as you lead an army to stop the Great Gate destroying the city."

The Emperor did not hide his shudder at the memory. "But I still let it open. I let it open long enough so that their captain of the guard had to fall. I don't doubt that the Countess will have a word or two in the matter. Maybe with fake kindness and patience."

"She's not the type."

"M'lord!" a voice called out. It was the guard who had delivered the message to the Countess. "The Countess will be pleased if you would see her now. In the th-throne room. Erm... she's granted you an audience. M-m'lord."

Josephus snorted louder than he should have at the boy's stuttering. Martin looked at him with a glare, which Josephus only replied with an innocent smile. "Thank you, my good man. I shall leave you to your duties, then."

"It's my pleasure. To serve, I mean, m'lord." Without even bowing or doing any show of a humble thanks for the compliment, the boy immediately ran back down and was lost in the alleys of the tightly knit wooden houses of Nordic architecture. He did not even slip on the melting ice.

Jauffre looked at the boy strangely. "He did not even address you properly, Sire."

Josephus turned to see the old man. Jauffre had been silent since they left the temple, never complaining about the cold weather, the danger that they would face, not even when his horse was stubborn over a rock that was in the mare's way and it panicked irrationally. Not forgetting that it almost threw the old man back, of course. Almost.

The Emperor, however, did not seem to acknowledge Jauffre's words. "Come." Martin lead the men towards the castle gates. Just for a small moment, though, Josephus saw Martin clenching his hand into a fist and then releasing it again. He repeated this action until the two guards standing in front of the castle gates opened the way for them to enter the Great Hall.

* * *

When outside Martin was freezing to death, inside the Great Hall was surprisingly warm despite the lack of a furnace inside the room. He moved his numb fingers, though he felt the sweat on his palms and tried to inconspicuously dry them off on his coat. The yellow rug on the floor dried off the ice that had stuck to his shoes, leaving marks of water droplets on the fabric. He asked himself if he was truly ready to face the Countess and decided yes, he probably was. He quickly moved on and entered the throne room at the end of the hall.

"Sire." Countess Narina Carvain rose from her throne, stepping down a few steps of stairs so that she was leveled with Martin. She curtseyed deeply, the skirt of her blue dress flowing behind her. "It is a great honour to meet you once more."

Martin nodded uncertainly. Now that the circumstance to meet the Countess was not to discuss of a coming war, he did not know exactly what to say. "Stand, my lady."

The Countess did so after just a second of hesitation. Her eyes seemed to search Martin's face of an explanation of his arrival. "And what is it that my Emperor requires, that he calls upon the Countess of Bruma?" Her voice was still the diplomatic tone she used back in the Chapel of Talos. It seemed that she had not changed at all, actually... save for the darker shadows under her eyes.

"I am marching towards the Imperial City." He gestured towards the small party of men around him. "While we were eager to leave as soon as we can, we appear to be short in supplies, and we only have so many Blades in the temple..." Martin trailed off, and he counted three heartbeats before the Countess even moved her head.

She cocked her head to the right, considering her Emperor's words. "Are you," she asked, still uncertain, "asking for my castle's hospitality?"

"I... did not say that." _Gods, why did her words shock me more than it should have?_ "I only ask you to spare a few men to escort me to the capital. I did not ask leave to be a guest in your—"

"Forgive me for interrupting, Sire," she cut off, eyeing the men behind him. Martin dared to look at the Blades and found them slightly worse for wear. Though the only battered, dented sword in the bunch was Josephus. "It seems to me that some of your men could use a rest. And it would be such a strange sight to see the Emperor and his men to stay at Olaf's Tap and Tack." She smiled slightly, but it was hard to tell under the dim lights in the hall.

"The Countess has a point, Sire," Josephus said, having the grace to stifle a yawn. "We need all the energy we can preserve if we want to make it to the city by nightfall."

"Our hero sees the truth of my words." The Countess turned to Josephus, her smile finally visible. "My, it seems as if it has been an eternity since we have last seen each other, Hero. I trust that you have gained the Amulet of Kings with no trouble at all?"

Martin wanted to cringe at the implication of her words, or the slight insult in her wording, but thankfully Josephus took it as a jest. "You flatter me, my lady. If somebody had warned me of the dangers I faced, I would have gone believing I can conquer the whole universe, prepared for _anything_. Thankfully our Emperor's description of Paradise was straying from the truth. Well, it _was_ a Paradise to be sure—all the colours and flowers, you wouldn't even believe it yourself—"

_His words are nonsensical._ Before Josephus could spew out even more, Martin quickly stepped forward. "I think I believe your words to be true, now, my lady, for my friend has not slept for a whole day and his fatigue has taken a toll on him. Very well. We will stay in your castle until this afternoon, no more than that. Will it be too much of a hassle for your servants to prepare a room for our Hero, and probably food? He has not eaten much, either."

"It will be no trouble, if it means helping the Emperor claim his rightful throne." She softly called for her herald, whispering to him a few things that Martin could not hear. Finally, though, she pulled away and said, "If you would so kindly show the Saviour of Bruma to his rooms, I would be grateful, Tolgan."

"Very well, my lady," the Nord named Tolgan replied, walking towards Josephus. "If you will, sir?"

"I'll take my leave, then, Sire. My lady." He looked at the other Blades and smiled at them. A few actually cared to look, while others were looking forward and not regarding their fellow Blade... though he saw Cyrus was hiding a smirk. "Lead on, Tolgan."

When the two had left the hall though a door beside the throne, the Countess turned back to Martin. "You mentioned supplies and men, Sire?"

Uncertainly, Martin nodded. "Yes. I understand that after the Oblivion invasion a few weeks ago..." he paused, not knowing if it was necessary to broach the topic. But the Countess showed no change in emotion, so he continued. "I understand that you may be lacking in a few soldiers and city guards. And the loss of the captain of the guard is no light matter—"

"It is not, you are correct, Sire." She turned to look at the Blades behind him. "I believe the guard barracks have a few spare beds that your men can use, actually. Maybe they could rest there, now?"

The sudden change of subject puzzled him, but he caught on eventually. _She wanted to talk in private._ "I agree, my lady."

This time she called for the nearest guard and asked him to show the Blades the guard barracks. When they were all escorted out, the Countess sighed heavily and sat back on her throne. _I have no thrones here_, Martin thought darkly,_ she means to show that she holds control over Bruma._

"Ever since the battle of Bruma ended, there are a few more common folk signing up for the city guards. But they are just that, Sire. Common folk. Farmers from the greener areas, mercenaries who gave up on their old life, citizens, boys..." She bowed her head, looking down at the floor. "These few people who will replace the many that fell on the battle. And they are guards, not soldiers, not knights, not fighters. They do not fight like those on the battlefields, and they are untrained."

Martin stepped closer to the throne. "My lady, while I understand your predicament, it is no more than one and a half day's ride to the Imperial City. If I—When I arrive to claim my throne there, I will dispatch as many Imperial legions as I could to Bruma as replacement for your soldiers, as is necessary."

"If you arrive and claim your throne." Narina glared at him, all sign of courtesy gone. "It is a cold world out there, Martin Septim. Do you think it is I who suffer from the guards' lowering quality? It is Bruma itself." She stood up once more, glaring down at him. "While you were in Cloud Ruler Temple, protected by your Blades, some bold looters have decided they will find luck from the men's corpses down in the valley. But they do not stop on looting and making a profit of them; they turned to _banditry._ They have been a nuisance to my people and to the travelers going through the county. And these so-called guards are not doing anything to help, even with strict orders from their countess. They have no discipline, no sense of duty. I cannot give them to you, yet I cannot give my good men away, too, because what will that leave me?"

_She has a point, but I am not asking much from her._ "I only ask for a handful of your men, my lady, no more than four would suffice. I do not ask for another full army like last time."

"Four _good_ men." The Countess crossed her arms, looking at him through narrow eyes. "Do you know how the crime rate has increased ever since Captain Burd fell in battle?"

Martin had no answer for that.

"Losing a captain of the guard isn't a burden. Replacing one with another much able man is." She scowled, taking the smallest step forward. Her voice was only the slightest bit raised, but Martin could feel the power behind it. "If you do not even know how badly the closest city to you has fared, how will you rule over _eight_ others?" Narina frowned, stepping down to look at him in eye level. "I do not doubt your competence. That has been settled the second I met you in the chapel." She lowered her voice until only he could hear her, stepping so close to him that if anyone was a witness to this meeting, they might have misunderstood their closeness as something intimate. "Yet we both know that your _people_ will doubt you if you cannot protect them."

She looked down to his neck, where the red ruby was resting. In her eyes, the jewel looked much like a still fire, and it almost remained there even after she looked back at his ocean blue eyes. "Martin Septim, I say with deep regret that I cannot lend out my hand at this moment. I cannot fully help you in this battle."

Tolgan knocked on the thick spruce door once and appeared a second later. The Countess stepped away from Martin and turned towards her herald, never looking like she had spoken words that were difficult for her to say. "Ah, Sire, I believe this discussion must continue in a later time. You must be weary. How about you join me for the noon's meal in an hour? We can discuss this predicament even further then, I'm sure."

* * *

When Linne woke up, she was frightened of her surroundings—the dimly lit room, the banners hanging from the walls showing a black hand print, the alien stone walls, and the damp air—before she remembered the events of last night. And so she was assured it was not a dream. She was a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

The first person to greet her in the morning was Ocheeva, who also handed her a uniform. "Forgive me, sister, but this is the smallest size we have. I am sure you will grow into it."

In the end, her gloves were always slipping off, the toe of her boots had to be stuffed with pieces of cloth at the toes so that her feet could walk normally in them, and her hood covered her eyes. She took the hood off, though, because she didn't need it right now. She was only meeting Vicente, and if she was not good enough to receive her first contract, she could spend the rest of the day building her muscle to better hold her dagger.

Truthfully, she had nicked away one of her sister's daggers after Niera stored them inside the chest in front of her bed—or what Linne assumed was Niera's bed. Then again, why put your weapons in other people's containers?—when nobody was inside the room. Niera won't miss the slightly dented blade, after all. She had five other, better daggers.

When she went out to the hall, she spotted an Orc and a Bosmer chatting with each other. "You are such a brute, Gogron!" the Bosmer said, her laughter filling the hall. She had a quiver of arrows strapped on her back, along with her bow. "Though that's expected of an Orc like you. Brutish, large," she giggled before continuing, "loud!"

"And you elves are much too slippery to be—" When he spotted Linne, he smiled widely, though his friend the Bosmer had a hint of a flush on her cheeks. "Ah, the newest member! Ocheeva couldn't stop talking about you! My, you're so small—even smaller than Telaendril here, if she won't take any offense!"

Linne smiled at Gogron, and then to Telaendril, who did not look at all offended by Gogron's joke. "I guess my small size is a bit unfortunate; my armour's not even trying to cling onto me, even after I clasped it the tightest it could get."

"You will grow into it, trust me. I was not quite smaller than you when I first joined the brotherhood, and I know how difficult fitting on the armour is. Yet a small body is a quick one, and harder to hit," Telaendril remarked. "Unlike Gogron here, we don't have to wear clanking iron to protect ourselves."

"I might feel hurt by that comment, but my iron's protecting me." Laughter rose in the hall once more. "Anyway, do you think we'll have another welcoming feast?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Linne asked, puzzled. Niera never mentioned _anything_ about a welcoming feast. Taking the title into thought, though, it probably had something to do with Linne's initiation into the brotherhood. _I just hope it isn't _that _special of an occasion, and too much of a trouble. Gods-Sithis, imagine what that would have been like._

"It's an unofficial tradition us residents of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary do," said Telaendril, by way of explanation. "It's only started since Antoinetta's arrival, though, and only because she insisted she would cook for all of us. I think we had a lad join us only to die in his first contract because of all the ale he drank the night before. Poor sod."

Gogron laughed once more. "I remember that boy! His face was pink in the evening, green in the morning and a mix of both when he received the contract from Vicente." He laughed again, and Linne had to wonder if he was actually _really_ a member of the Dark Brotherhood because he contrasted very much with the others she had met.

"But obviously you have things to do than to chat with us, don't you, Linne?" Telaendril asked. Linne was surprised as to how she knew her name, but Ocheeva probably told them already.

"Yes, I need to go to Vicente." She turned to look at the hall. "Yet I don't know where he is."

"In his chambers, most likely. In these hours he keeps to himself and read. I suppose that schedule was interrupted when Ocheeva visited him this morning, though." Telaendril pointed down to the corridor, to the set of double doors that was visible to them. "That's her room. Vicente's room is at the far end; you need only follow the corridor when it turns."

Linne nodded in thanks. "I'll be taking my leave, then."

She had barely walked away when the Bosmer spoke again. "Dear," called Telaendril, which made Linne turn back to her. Linne raised an eyebrow as a question. "I... think it will be best if you ignore Vicente's true nature. You don't need to be afraid of him."

Not knowing just how to exactly respond to that, she turned back and went on her way down the corridor. _True nature?_ It was then that she remembered the words Niera and Teinaava exchanged last night. Even when she was exhausted, she felt as if there was something they were hiding from her. _I suppose I'll be finding out soon_, she thought. Still, it did nothing to ease her.

When she stopped in front of the end of the corridor, a set of double doors greeted her. She could hear a slow, quiet murmuring from behind the wood, but maybe that was just her imagination. Maybe the hallways were so silent that her head made a sound in her mind.

She broke the silence by knocking twice on the door. She waited for a few seconds, then knocked again, this time thrice. Finally, there came an answer. "Come in," said a man—Breton, by his accent—whose voice was muffled from behind the doors. Gathering her nerves, she grabbed hold of the door's handle and pushed it open.

"I'm told to see you—"

Her sentence stopped midway. Staring back at her, with bright red eyes, gaunt, hollow cheeks, and a dangerously calm demeanor, was a vampire. As much as his smile was friendly, and definitely not the type you wear when you see food on your plate, it was decidedly worse, somehow. His calmness, clashing greatly with his vampirism, yet suiting _him_, frightened Linne the worst.

It was a long stretch of silence before she spoke again. "I'm right to presume you are Vicente?"

He nodded slowly. "The one and only in this Sanctuary." When Linne kept her silence, he sighed. "Does my appearance deter you from speaking, Linne?"

The fact that he knew her name also frightened her. "A bit... though I shouldn't be too surprised. I've had my guesses." _That was blunt, Linne._ But there was nothing else she could say to soften her words, that she knew.

Thankfully, though, Vicente did not look the least bit offended, as if he was used to hearing those words. "There is no reason to fear me. The Tenets prevent me to harm any of my dark brothers and sisters. I am rather known to follow the Tenets, otherwise I wouldn't be here."

Linne was relieved by his words, yet uncertain if she should quickly believe them. She scratched a non-existing itch behind her neck and tried to think of what to say. "What's... going to happen now, then?"

"Usually, a new member would have the system of how the Brotherhood works explained to them. I don't doubt that Niera has more than once explained this to you," he set down his book, for once breaking eye contact with Linne, and then looked at her once more as he stood up, "and many other things that a member should not tell an outsider?"

She saw through the mask of Vicente's calmness, and heard the dangerous quiet in his tone instead. She gulped. "She only told me a little bit. That was only this... last night, I think, shortly after I arrived. Ocheeva too. They explained how contracts are given and received..." She trailed off as she remembered the vague explanation Ocheeva had given her.

Vicente was silent for a moment, and then he held a hand out for her. "Come closer. I need to inspect your sword arm."

Rather reluctantly, Linne stepped forward and gave Vicente her right arm for observing. Then she realised she was still wearing a gauntlet. "One moment," she said, unclasping the gauntlet off her hand. There was a sheen of sweat on her arm, and she realised how hot it was inside the armour, even though it was cold in the Sanctuary.

Vicente took a good look at the non-existing muscles on her arm, and then held it. _His hands are cold. Well, of course, he's a living corpse._ The fact made her shiver, but thankfully Vicente did not notice, or pretended not to notice.

"Have you killed before?" he asked, looking back at Linne, releasing her arm. There was disappointment in Vicente's eyes, the red around his pupil telling her as much.

"Yes," she answered, giving no other explanation. If Vicente figured that she had only killed a few rats (and you can count how many with only one hand), a scamp once, and that was only yesterday, when will he ever give her a contract? A part of her still wished for nothing else but a few weeks of time before she could be truly sent out to a contract. It was all too much to take in at once. She hose to be completely honest. "Only once, though. I... I'm not that good with a dagger, yet, but I promise I will get better with time and use."

The vampire tilted his head slightly as he considered Linne's words. "You promise now, sister, but what will you say if your first contracts ends with your life? I do not mean to scare you, I am merely giving you food for thought. If I send out an inexperienced assassin, even for the simplest of contracts... it will not do." He shook his head. "I don't mean any offense, but I can't give you any contracts for now. After weeks of training, perhaps, and showing your skills, you can return and we will negotiate."

Linne kept quiet, though deep down she was relieved that she won't be sent with a contract _too_ soon. She tried to act disappointed. "Negotiate? Not surely giving me a contract, you mean?"

Vicente was silent for a moment, then nodded. "However, I think a demonstration of your talents will be necessary. This afternoon, meet me in the training room. We can spar lightly, there."

Frozen in fear, Linne swallowed the lump in her throat. "Spar?"

"With wooden weapons, Linne," he said, smiling. "Don't be afraid. Though the art of assassination requires stealth as a primary skill, I think that learning to defend yourself with a weapon is utterly necessary. I will not be harsh with you when we train, so there will be no need to be scared. Unless I still intimidate you."

"I... yes," she agreed after some thought. Sparring would not be too bad. She could finally learn to wield a weapon, even if it was wooden, and the worst scenario that could have happened was her embarrassing herself in front of Vicente and the other members. Yet they _have_ to understand that she was still young, like _most_ of them when they entered the brotherhood. _Sithis, I don't think I need to think about that too much._ She took a deep breath before continuing her reply. "I am not much intimidated by you, _now_." _What are you saying? Of course you're still afraid of him. _"It's just the way they spoke about you. Why do they keep your true nature a secret from new recruits if they will find out anyway?"

Vicente chuckled. "A curious one. Or an honest one? Nevertheless, you are correct. Why must we delay their discovery of my condition? Well, if you knew I was a vampire right after you joined, and with the knowledge that _I_ will give you your future contracts, will you still come to see me for an inspection? Or to receive contracts?"

He pulled a chair out for her, and she sat down. Vicente sat on the one he was previously sitting on before Linne entered the room. "Linne, you must know that secrets are what has made the Dark Brotherhood as it is now. Do you think we would be dismissed as merely a myth, so as to not attract unwanted suspicion, if we did not keep ourselves a secret from everybody else?"

"No, I don't suppose we would," she said. _How many times have I heard "You must know" these days?_ she thought. _You've got a lot to learn,_ her sister said. Perhaps it was true.

"I'm glad you think so. I am not quite troubled if new members _knew_ I was a vampire before meeting me directly, yet I don't want them to be uncomfortable knowing what I am." He smiled once more. "Or to strangers, _who_ I am."

Linne looked at him, though she herself was not sure what to make of the vampire in front of her. "So it is better for them to be confused, puzzled, lost in thought? Than to know _what_ you are?"

"You understand perfectly, Linne." He paused, looking at her in the eyes. This time, she was resolved to not flinch away, and that seemed to satisfy the vampire for he smiled, if only a small one. A small, fond one. "For a moment, you were almost like your sister. She's quite analytical." He stood up and walked over to the doors. "And where else to learn that trait than from me?" He opened one of them and gestured. "This afternoon, in the training room. I will wait for your attendance there."

**-~O~-**

While I edited this chapter, I _also _spent a bit of time writing up chapter fifteen. _A bit._

It's a special treat if you kind of appreciate Martin's point of view in this chapter.


	16. Afternoon

Author's Note: I completely acknowledge the fact that I've been gone for more than a month. Well, my computer is mostly to blame for not functioning properly, but nonetheless I tried to finish this chapter as soon as possible. My 'comeback' comes with a late merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy New Year, and happy etcetera.

**-~O~-**

Chapter 15: Afternoon

**-~O~-**

The servant girl entered with a tray of assorted food—a slice of cheese, a still steaming bowl of venison stew, and a generous loaf of bread, to name a few—and upon seeing the Saviour of Bruma resting his head on the table, she cleared her throat. "Your food, sir."

Josephus' face lit up in delight when he turned to look at her, and then even smiled even brighter when he saw what she was carrying. He gestured at the table, and the girl put the tray on it. "Send my regards to the cook," he said, but the servant girl was already closing the doors behind her. He turned his attention towards the food, and restrained himself from devouring it all at once. That would be barbaric, and even Josephus had a knowledge of manners, no matter how small it was.

First, he cut a piece of bread with the knife set next to the plate of cheese and dipped them in the soup. _And just my favourite type._ He looked at the tray, wondering if he should eat now—well, _of course_ someone wiser than Josephus would probably be helping himself with a second bowl, and with a hunger like his own! When he finally decided he should put a bit of cheese on it, though, the servant girl entered again.

If Martin Septim could be called a servant girl, of course.

"Josephus, I'm afraid I must trouble you with something. What are you eating?" He pointed at the bread in Josephus' hand, and no later than that did Josephus bite into it. He ignored the Emperor all this time.

_Sweet Talos, I never seem to appreciate food when it's on my plate._ "I am eating food fit for an Emperor. But don't touch it; I don't think there's enough for the two of us."

"There are grander feasts—" When Josephus showed him a look, Martin shook his head and continued before he can completely change the subject at hand to food. "The Countess does not want to lend out her men."

"It looks obvious enough," he pointed out.

Martin was positively agitated. "What do you mean, it looks obvious enough?"

Josephus contained his smirk. "First, you didn't really barge into my room just to speak of food." Martin crossed his arms, but did not interrupt. "And if the Countess, otherwise, _did_ agree to give you a few more guards, you'd be happy as a boy in love, kissing the ground Countess Carvain walks on as a sign of appreciation. But you don't seem to be doing any of that. Why isn't she giving us some guards?"

Martin ignored Josephus' teases. "She lacks the men to protect us _and_ her city. Nothing I said seemed to persuade her!"

"Then there's the problem! You're not the least bit persuasive to start with." He chomped another piece of bread, plainly this time. "If anything, you didn't appeal to something that would hold her interest. You clearly did not even scrape the surface of her _heart_."

"What didn't I appeal to? I promised her men to be sent to Bruma when I take my throne. Protection. I promised her replacement for the damage that the battle has done—"

Josephus swallowed quickly. "Are you _joking_? Just _that?_" He waved his hands in frustration when Martin only showed a confused look. "I don't understand how you'd think _that_ will be enough to convince her to give a few men! Just..." He coughed when the bread nearly choked him, and so suddenly he wished for a goblet of wine. When his fit was over, he cleared his throat. "You have to give half of what you promise in _advance_, Martin. That will ultimately sway the Countess to get on your side."

It was obvious that Martin was thinking over his words. Josephus took a few spoonfuls of soup to wet his throat. After a while, Martin lowered his arms and sighed. "We will dine in an hour or so. I went here expecting advice, and I have one. Yet I'm not sure if it is _good_ advice."

"Whether it's good or not, it is your judgment. But I've said my piece, and if _you_ go on about the castle searching for better advice than mine and they all _fail_, you know you need to try mine." Josephus set down his spoon, feeling his stomach filled for the first time since... hours, perhaps. He was not sure how long he has stayed in Paradise.

Martin huffed. "And what do _you_ suggest I should present to her? 'Half of what I promise in advance.' I can't send her any Imperial Legions _now_. I barely have power over them."

"A betrothal," said Josephus so suddenly that even Martin was shocked to hear his words. Yet now it all made sense, and if _anything_ could help Martin in this situation, it was promising an engagement; the Emperor uniting with the Countess of Bruma, and indirectly Skyrim, through marriage. The northern folk, the Nords... they respect the Countess. Even more so if she was the Empress. "Don't you see? This alliance will be the perfect thing to further protect Bruma _and_ the Countess herself. It is—"

"No!" Martin exclaimed. Josephus stared at him and saw the blush creeping on his friend's cheeks. "No, I can't possibly promise her that. Her place is in Bruma, and she cannot go to the capital. She would _never_ leave her beloved town undefended."

Josephus shook his head. "I'm getting the impression you never paid attention to my words. _Promise_ her that you will wed with her. Go really ask for her hand in marriage, ask her relatives' blessings—whatever fancy business that's required before you properly wed _after_ you send your legions to Bruma. Once she's sure that Bruma is safe and sound, she would be more than joyous to leave for the south." He spoke again before Martin could argue. "And besides, the Nords will be on your side _even more_ by this marriage. It'll cement the brick wall I like to call _Martin Septim's Safety_. This is all so perfect."

"This is all so perfect, if _you're_ not the one getting married. And why must we take such drastic actions for just _four men?_"

"Then why all the effort for just _four men?_" Josephus retorted. "Some wars are won with a fight, while some with _love_. You now as much of that as I do."

Martin only crossed his arms once more and frowned. _Honestly, why is he being so childish over this? He's acting like some sort of rebellious princess in almost every child's tale._ "I have less than an hour until we have our lunch. If you don't have anymore advice, then I am forced to search for Jauffre in the barracks."

He took a deep breath, and then sighed. "Fine. Go, if it pleases you, Sire. Just mark my words: When all the others fail, you know you'd need to try my advice."

Martin nodded and went out of the room, leaving Josephus to his own thoughts. What had made Martin so upset over the prospect of marriage? Surely he did not expect that being Emperor meant he will not forge new alliances and secure existing friendships.

He settled to shaking his head and taking another spoonful of soup.

* * *

"Jauffre, I would need some help on a delicate matter," Martin said. The old man looked at him with weary eyes, but he nodded. "It is the Countess. She is not giving us help other than her castle's hospitality. But our party needs even more men than we currently have, and you too know that."

Martin had pulled Jauffre away to talk in an empty room in the barracks. There was no way to be sure that they were not being overheard, but there was little enough time as there is, and getting to the dining hall would consume some more time. And if he had talked to Josephus without the assurance of privacy, discretion was not his priority now.

The Blades Grandmaster only shrugged. "I don't know about you, Sire, but if I have a say in this, then I would inform you that our Blades are able. We have Baurus, your trusted guard. Then there is Cyrus, who guards your chambers every day. And you have the Grandmaster of the Blades himself... not that I am boasting. We have Roliand, a tough Nord, also trusted to guard your chambers, Arcturus, who has a keen eye, and Jena—she is a strong woman, Sire. I would not have chosen them to be with us if they were not the best the Blades could offer."

_But you are worn and aged, no matter what your title is, Jauffre._ Yet Jauffre spoke some sense, and Martin began to see it... if only barely. "You mean to say that we require no more men to help us?"

"Quickness is the most important part in our plan, Martin," the old man replied. He beckoned Martin closer so that he could whisper, "And to be honest, I don't trust that these Bruma guards will be as disciplined as the Blades. You know these Nords; they work hard, yes, but their mead and ale come first."

"They won't be sober in most of our plan, you mean?" Martin guessed. Jauffre did not answer immediately, but by the frown that he made, Martin presumed that he was correct. "I see."

"I am glad that you do, Sire," Jauffre said. "If I am correct, you have an appointment with the Countess, yes?"

Martin truly did not want to be reminded of that, but he nodded grimly. "She proposed that we should continue our discussion there, though now it feels as if we do not need to discuss anything." He looked around the empty room, making sure that no one was eavesdropping, hiding under a bed. "Though, there is something that Josephus suggested that might or might not be a good idea."

Jauffre smiled fondly, but it was obvious he was amused with Martin's choice of advice source. "And what will that be, Sire?"

Martin sighed, and looked at Jauffre in the eye. "He suggested a betrothal between the Countess and... the Emperor."

"He did?" Jauffre's surprise was not dramatised. His grey brows were raised quizzically as he considered the truth of Martin's words. _Even he thinks it is the most impossible thing to happen._ "Well, that is rather unusual of him."

"It is usual of him to accompany such an idea with a barrage of _teasing_." Martin waved a hand. "Yet I can't help but to wonder what made him think of that. Does he truly think that marrying the Countess of Bruma would solidify Skyrim's loyalty to the empire? To make sure that they won't rebel against us?"

"The Countess is merely a ruler of a city, and in Bruma. We're still far from the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil. If you truly want to solidify Skyrim's alliance, it would be by marrying a Jarl from the Nordic province." Jauffre shrugged. "I don't suppose that we could send a messenger to one of their holds, to see if they have anyone you could wed."

As he said these words though, Martin thought it was even more impossible. Who would possibly want to marry the bastard emperor? And the Nords of Skyrim were quite known to keep their dignity. Or honour. Or whichever trait they will voice to keep from marrying a _bastard_.

Then, he quite wondered if the Countess would be the slightest bit offended if he were to propose a marriage with her. _Surely she would be shocked that she would and could never answer._ "I will consider this... when we get to the capital. Right now, however, I must take my leave. The Countess is no doubt waiting."

"Then with your dismissal, Sire," Jauffre said as a farewell. He went outside the room first, for the Nine Divines knew that Martin could never bring the courage to see the Countess now, of all times.

Yet he must. It was his duty, and it was a privilege given by the Countess herself. He massaged his temple and decided that enough was enough. He opened the door and went through the corridors of the barracks, and up to the Great Hall. A few guards nodded at him, and he asked one of them where the dining hall was. "Just beside the throne room, Sire, through that doorway."

Indeed, it was just where the guard had directed him to. Though Martin would welcome some sort of delay for this lunch, some part of him wished nothing but to be through with this ordeal. _This would be the perfect time for a jape from the Nine Divines,_ he thought darkly. _They'll add something to this meeting that would only prolong it._

"Sire, you have finally arrived!" greeted the Countess. She was, of course, sitting on the grandest seat and looked down at the other chairs. Only Tolgan stood by his lady, and that was quite a distance away from the table. "You will forgive me if I do not rise—this chair is a heavy thing to move, even if for a small space."

"Then please remain seated, my lady," he said. The Countess smiled at him sweetly, though deep down he knew what she thought. _She wants to talk to me no more than I her._ He chose a seat that will be a comfortable distance from her, and looked upon the table. It is a simple meal; there was mutton with a delicious dressing, bread stuffed with cheese, a steaming bowl of soup, fruits that had a layer of frost on their skin, and a plate of smoked salmon.

They filled their plates lightly at first. The Countess did her best to avoid any contact with Martin, and occupied herself with choosing the perfect amount of meat and greens. When finally they had settled for the amount of food on their plates, Martin looked at her. She, predictably, was not gazing back at him.

He tried his best to ignore the awkward silence he'd plunged themselves in, but it was a struggle to do that and not look self-conscious. When half of his food was gone, he poured himself a cup of wine. "The food is great," he said conversationally. To keep himself from speaking anymore, he took a deep swallow of the fine red drink. _It's been too long,_ he thought, _too long since I've been in the company with the likes of _her.

"I do agree, Sire. I make sure my cook is properly waged, because there is no other way I could appreciate his services." She wiped her mouth with a white napkin and set it down, choosing to take a frozen grape. "Though I sometimes miss the cuisine from the south." She shrugged and inserted the fruit into her mouth, looking down at her hands.

"I sometimes wonder how a woman like yourself could survive in the north, my lady. With all due respect," he added quickly, watching her snap her eyes to him. "Perhaps it is because you are not like other women?"

"I pride myself in that, for there is little to be proud of in the north." She sighed and took a sip of wine. "You look past the sun's golden hue on the snow and its rare warmth in the cool air, the ice that reflects you as you walk by it, the layer of snow on the rooftops, so it's just the bleak grey land that I rule for... how many years, now? Thirteen? I've certainly lost count."

"You have done an able job of keeping the Nords in order, my lady," he complimented. The Countess snorted in an unladylike manner and took another sip of wine, this time more than what was necessary.

"Don't you dare think for a second, Martin Septim, that I rule with my own bare hands. I've been keeping this country—oh, what country?—in order only because of their respect to my House and the fact that I even _stay_ here. That respect that is dwindling every second of the day." She took the final swallow of wine and set her goblet down. "Don't you dare think for a second that I rule this country with... what do you call it, these days? Love over the people? Hell, the people are thieves, drunkards and both." She looked down at her hands once more. "The Nine knows why I still put up with this."

"Do you miss southern Cyrodiil so much?" Martin asked further. He wasn't truly feeling that broaching the topic was the wisest decision to take, but the Countess had already downed a goblet of wine in under a minute. Surely wisdom was long ago abandoned.

The Countess for a moment put down her wine. "Should I be honest, Sire? I suppose honesty is needed most in a lady of power such as myself. Very well." She sighed, her shoulders slumped so she looked less like a lady and more like a woman with many burdens. _Doesn't_ that_ feel oddly familiar?_ Martin thought. "I don't even remember the feel of warm air, or the green grass, or the fantastic vibrant colours of the flowers in the endless stretch of fields. I miss my true home, the Heartlands, but I cannot even remember them all."

"Couldn't you visit the Heartlands?" He shrugged indifferently when she shot him a look. "I am merely suggesting, my lady."

Her jaw clenched, that much was obvious enough. "Do not think for a moment that I'm stupid, Martin Septim. What you are suggesting—me abandoning Bruma to leave for the south—is merely to plant a replacement for this county's leader while I'm gone. As if I would relent."

"You misjudge my innocent chirp," Martin denied, taking a healthy sip of wine, "as I only suggested you to rule as Empress by my side."

Immediately after he blurted that out, silence fell upon them, and the only sound that broke the atmosphere was the _clank_ as the lady's goblet landed on the table. It was a good thing that the wine did not spill on the clean, white table cloth. He considered the fact that the Countess was flabbergasted of his offer as a victory on his side. _She did not seem to think this through, if she did at all._

The Countess' dark brown eyes watered a bit, but she blinked the almost nonexistent tears away. "I hope you can forgive me for begging you to repeat your words... sire?"

Once again, Martin shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the significance of his words. "I am offering a betrothal. A passing thought; feel free to disregard it."

The Countess made a move to answer, but thought better of it and immediately closed her mouth. She stared down at her plate, and scowled. "Tolgan, please clear the meal away. I believe this lunch is done."

When she stood up, Martin was quicker and was already striding to stand beside her her. "My lady, if you could, I would like you to consider my offer and contemplate the many advantages of being Empress. Don't you have any cousins or brothers to rule Bruma in your stead while you join me in the Imperial City?"

"This discussion is long since finished, Sire. I will not leave for the South, not until—"

"Not until you are assured that Bruma is safe," Martin said for her. The Countess' look at him was almost terrifying, the way her eyes glared at him, her face red with anger and possible embarrassment, her thin, scowling lip... but Martin stood his ground. "If you would do me the kindness of accepting my offer, _and_ to lend out only three of your soldiers, I will ensure that _when_ I claim my throne I will pay back my past debts with gold, men and repairs for Bruma. This I swear to you."

For a moment, the Countess seemed to truly consider his words. And then she sighed. "You are not one to surrender easily, are you, my Emperor?"

Martin managed a smile, which felt liberating. "I believe our Hero influenced me on that, my lady." He bowed. "With your dismissal, I will head to my chambers."

The Countess nodded to him, waving a hand impatiently. "And with _yours_, I have pressing matters to attend to. This country won't rule itself."

Martin bowed once more and left the room, closing the door behind him. He rested his back on the wooden surface, fully realizing just what he had sentenced himself into. _Gods damn it, someday I'll strangle Josephus._

* * *

She did not think to arrive early, but since she had no sense of time Linne thought it was best to linger around the training room, in case Vicente would show up early. Antoinetta was lacerating a wooden dummy mercilessly, a Khajiit was casting spells at another target, and Ocheeva was watching all of this beside Linne, sitting on a chair. "I remember when I just hatched many years ago. As a Shadowscale, especially. It was truly an honour."

So she had said many times before as Linne waited for the vampire to arrive. Linne fidgeted endlessly with her loose gauntlet, and kept tightening the leather strap binding her hair together. The Argonian's voice was almost like an ambient noise, along with the _clang clonk shlunk_ of Antoinetta's blade, the _swoosh_ of Mraaj-Dar's magic, and the silence that never left the Sanctuary. _It was truly an honour, to me and my brother. We wouldn't stop training for years, and when the time arrived yadda yadda yadda..._

A noise joined the rest of the ambience, that of a creaking door and its closure. Linne looked up to see in strange disappointment that it was only Gogron. The orc seated himself far from the others, a mug in his giant hand. He sighed heavily. "There's nothing like being in the training room."

"Especially for a new member's training," Ocheeva added, much to Linne's dismay. _Why couldn't you just continue on with your story? Not that there's anything left to be said about it._ "I cannot help but feel intrigued for our little Linne's specialty here."

"Trust me, you will be massively let down," Linne said, speaking for the first time since hours, "because my skills are that of an infant guar."

Ocheeva chuckled. "There is no need to feel so humble, dear Linne. My, I believe you're such a fresh change from Antoinetta's constant bragging."

"I don't _brag_," Antoinetta said, annoyed. "I tell _facts_ about myself." She sheathed back her daggers, the blades flashing because of the speed, so quick that Linne was envious. "And who knows? Maybe when word spreads of my skillfulness I'll be chosen as Lucien Lachance's Silencer. You know that he hasn't had a Silencer for over a decade, don't you?"

"You weren't even here yet when that happened. A lot of things change within the decade, Antoinetta," argued Ocheeva. "_And who knows_? Maybe he already has a Silencer that he keeps from us."

"Nonsense," she said, shaking her head. "There are no secrets between us and him. Absolutely not. "

Ocheeva opened her mouth, but refrained from saying what she wanted to say for a moment. "Your admiration of him is too..." She looked at Linne as if the word the Argonian was looking for rested in the girl. "What is it called?"

Linne looked back at the Argonian. "Fanciful? Reaching for the impossible? Silly?" she tried, but Ocheeva shook her head at all her suggestions, and Antoinetta's scowl became even more evident.

"Call it whatever you want, but _he_ saved my life. He brought me from my horrible past and gave me a present and future. I wish nothing but to repay my debt for him." The Breton crossed her arms, oblivious to the Argonian's rolling eyes. She wondered aloud, "I wonder if he will be coming to the welcoming feast, however..."

"Wasn't he busy with the Listener in some sort of meeting?" Gogron asked. "Meaning, won't he be away for a few days?"

"The meeting took place four days ago. And Niera was summoned by Lucien just two nights ago. He _has_ returned from the meeting." Antoinetta paced restlessly, her words doing nothing to reassure herself. Linne watched her and noticed a small similarity between Antoinetta and Linne's own sister, but it showed for only a moment—too brief for Linne to put her finger on it—and was interrupted by another sound of the door opening.

This time it was Vicente. The vampire moved with an inexpressible grace that Linne thought it was impossible for a living corpse to walk so. He looked around the room first, and when he spotted Linne she stood up. Ocheeva, she noticed, also rose from her seat. "Vicente. A pleasure to see you out of your chamber."

Vicente did not take it as an offense, if it ever was. "A pleasure I return, sister." He turned to Linne. "Are you ready, Linne?"

"I... guess I am." Her eyes took another look around the training room, to the Khajiit now reading a tome of some sort, Antoinetta with her arms folded looking back at her, and Gogron, who was watching the whole ordeal with a drink in hand. _Too many eyes that can see my failure._ "I don't suppose I can have a drink first."

"Go ahead. Take your time—but not too long, I hope."

Linne dragged herself to a table sitting against a wall that supported three pewter cups and a bottle of ale. Though she would probably regret drinking it, she would rather feel adrenaline pumping in her veins and suffer through the pounding in her head afterwards. She poured slowly at first, but then felt time ticking away, and so settled with half of the small cup. _Bottoms up, I guess._ With a huge swallow, she downed the ale and set it down rather harshly back on the table. She took deep breaths before turning around.

Everybody's eyes were on her, and she felt as if _ten_ cups of ale was not enough, but she had already turned around—it would only look _silly_ if she decided now to drink some more. "I'm ready."

"Then let us begin," the vampire replied calmly, producing from behind his back two wooden shortswords. "Lightly first, and moving forward to moderately basic attacks. We have plenty of time to waste."

"I don't want to consider my training to be a waste of time," Linne retorted, feeling her mind getting duller and tongue getting sharper by the second. _Gods, it was only_ half_ a cup. You've drank more and worse. At least stay sober for this!_

Vicente smiled. "Excellent choice of words," he said, and handed over a sword when she walked over to him. The room felt smaller. Too small. Linne wondered if there would be enough space for her to make it out of this training unscathed. Probably not. "Are you familiar with a sword?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "I'm always informed that assassins use _daggers_ and don't bother with swords anyways. They need to be quick."

"But in order to properly use a dagger, or any weapon," Vicente raised his sword, its blade below Linne's own, bringing it up with his, "is to build your muscles firstly."

Linne's breath quickened when Vicente swung at her. In reflex she only backed away, avoiding the attack but crashing against a column. Her training sword fell out from her hands, its wooden _clang_ echoing in the room. "What in Oblivion was that supposed to be?"

"That was your first lesson," Vicente answered calmly, as if he did not just try to hit Linne's head. "Be quick and wary. There is no use in knowing how to use a dagger yet getting tangled up in a mess before you can even unsheathe your blade." He swung his sword by his side, and then brought it forward. "A dagger is lighter than a wooden sword, yes. But since you have not been in many fights yet, you have not built your strength."

"Assassinating is all about sneaking up on your target and then you _stab_ them until they bleed out and die." Linne went to retrieve her sword anyway, trying with all her might not to look upon her fellow assassins, no doubt enjoying the spectacle. "Why should I learn how to wield a heavy sword when I could use a shorter, lighter blade instead?"

"Indeed, why?" Vicente asked as a retort. "Why must you learn how to defend yourself should things go awry or the circumstance did not allow you to wield a dagger?"

_Night Mother's breasts,_ Linne shook her head as she held her sword in front of her, fixed her stance, and now prepared for a hit from the vampire, if it ever came, _this is infuriating._

**-~O~-**

The next chapter will probably arrive in three weeks, maximum. At least I hope so, because school's back. Hrmph.

**Hope:** Thank you! You're the first review in quite a while. I'm also happy to know that I'm not the only shipper—I thought I was nuts. Anyways, thank you again for the review!


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